Norman Rockwell

Norman Rockwell has always attended my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. With a look of disdain on his wrinkled old face, he was the uninvited guest watching us. I watched back. Over the years he saw a family without two parents at the table, siblings who spent the holiday elsewhere, and on occasion, a family divided at two or even three tables. There was even a time when the sacrilege of turkey slices appeared instead of an entire turkey, golden brown and baked to perfection.

I once went to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, the home of Norman Rockwell, and gazed at each of his Life magazine photo covers in the museum. They represented his image of America and families at their best. I went to his home and wondered what transpired at his holiday table. I don’t recall any Life photos of his Thanksgiving gatherings with family and friends. Maybe he was too busy appearing at my table criticizing my family for not meeting his expectations.

And, he surely would have been disappointed with me this year. I spent Thanksgiving with the friends who are my family while my blood family, whom I deeply missed, scattered around different tables sharing their joy with each other. Yet, they were with me. My grandmother was in the dressing made with the exact same recipe and served with pride. The turkey was bought for me because I love dark meat, just like my father. I remembered my sister when we held hands to give thanks; a tradition she started some years ago. My friend thought of her loved ones when she shared her family’s tradition and asked us to go around the table and mention something for which we gave thanks. And my other friend, who also brought his sister to the feast, was excited about the opened cans of cranberry sauce, chilled, sliced and placed in a spot of honor, just like at his favorite holiday meals, next to the turkey.

Fresh cranberries simply don’t matter to some of us. I love the cans too. And it was this year that I finally realized that Norman Rockwell probably wouldn’t have cans of cranberry sauce in his photos. He would draw real cranberries, glazed and heated with sugar and oranges until someone thought they were wonderful. Yet, that someone wasn’t me. I was a can girl.

So this year, I saw Norman at the table. Oh yes, he was a distant cousin, the black sheep of the Rockwell family clan but he was our guest. Norman was dazed and confused by my friend hitting him with that can of cranberry sauce when all the love exploded, but he was welcome at our table. And what Norman saw was what I saw – a gathering of friends and family who chose to come together for a holiday meal, celebrated with memories and love.

Holidays are what we make them, what we remember, and how much of ourselves we share. All of my holidays, and this holiday, are worthy of putting on a magazine cover. Maybe it is a collage on the cover of Psychology Today but I’m proud that it’s my family and friends with extra room to spare for Cousin Norman.

Thankfulness

This time of year, it’s easy to slip on a cloak of thankfulness and wrap it tightly around our shoulders warding off cold from others. For a while, we forget their empty faces as the temperatures dip lower and the hint of snow and holiday excitement lingers in the air. Dinners, parties, football, hockey, shopping, catching up and slowing down consume the days, and calendars are full before the first turkey is placed on the platter.

We recite the list, which is honest and true, and are thankful for good health, families and friends, hot food and cold drinks. We are thankful for jobs, clothing and shelter. We are thankful for having so much when in reality, we need so little.

As the days pass, we head to homeless shelters and drop money in buckets outside grocery stores. We adopt angels, buy toys and pick up an extra coat to give to the poor. We do make a difference in the lives of others in meaningful ways, but some people remain who may not know the joy of thankfulness. These are the emotionally needy who have hearts of ice and may not be found where we first look. These with the broken spirits and minds may walk by our side each day.

And so this Holiday Season may we find the strength to share our cloaks of thankfulness and wrap love and provisions around the needy - whether living in shelters or at the office or in the house next door.

Time

Time is fleeting like the first winter snowfall landing softly on the cold, hard ground blanketing the world in white. Under a clear sky and fading moon, tree branches hang heavy coated in ice and time stands still before the first footprints mar the pristine wilderness.

Time can be seen in the growth spurt of children over a summer’s vacation spent playing kickball or Simon Says. Time rushes by for the bride anticipating her walk down the aisle or can drag for the uninspired mired in a daily grind of monotony. It can be put to good use or wasted. It is a most precious gift. It has healing qualities and can change everything while changing nothing.

We all have the same amount of time in the day. Some sleep through much of it while others work through most of it. Yet, we live in the space of these seconds that tick into minutes and into hours. And as the hours become days which grow into years, we suddenly have accumulated enough of it to fill a lifetime.

Only then do we appreciate and learn the complex essence of time -it’s full and rich when measured in love, laughter, family and friends.

Open Happiness

Even as a small child, I wandered the woods. Searching throughout the seasons for my place in the world and expecting to find it written amidst the dogwood leaves. Scuffing dead branches and twigs on the trail and creating paths where none ventured, I sought refuge among the peace of the trees. Changing weather was a constant friend. If it stormed, I would be among the first to run outside to feel the wind whipping through my hair and stomp in fresh puddles until the splatter and rain commingled and drenched my body. When the leaves fell, my sister and I would rake them into big piles and then jump with abandon scattering our day’s work as fall’s pungent aroma permeated our skin. Winter’s first snow found us sledding down a neighbor’s hill, carving ice angels and building snow men with carrot noses and stick arms.

It was a simple time. My only concern was timing the hot chocolate so I could place a steaming mug in the mailbox to provide warmth to the mailman. In the heat of summer, I had to be in proximity of the front yard so when I heard the musical tones signaling the ice cream truck, I would run, pony tails flying and dimes in hand, to trade my allowance for an ice cream sandwich.

I thought of these images when I read the words Open Happiness next to the coca-cola bottle printed on the cocktail napkin. How nice to have a can of coke to take a sip and recapture youth. Or pour its dark color in a glass and find my past in clear bubbles. Its liquid refreshment quenching the thirst of those who yearn for the adult versions of happiness – the intangibles such as joy, peace and contentment.

I retreat to the woods to find happiness and experience the changing seasons but sometimes can’t feel the breeze’s soft embrace because I am running away from people encroaching in my space instead of running to a beautiful place. I let them into my life so I run to let them go. The soft ice angels of my childhood have morphed into hard cold ice that drips through the veins and in the reptilian eyes of those who disbelieve that mailbox warmth and ice cream trucks belong in the present as much as the past.

I seem to go more often to the woods to escape these toxic people consuming me with their manipulations. But, I still take change for a simple treat in the summer. I put my boots on tight in the winter and marvel at the first snow falling on the lake and bright red cardinal perched majestically on a pure white frosty branch. I raise my face to the heavens when it rains and feel the wetness sting my cheeks and run down my hair. I reach out my hand to catch the first falling leaf of autumn. I am free to experience the wonders of the wild and let my heart travel with childlike wonder in the ancient directions intended before my time.

Maybe the coke people have it right. Happiness is simple. Open it up. It doesn’t really matter if the woods are my retreat or my journey. It doesn’t matter why I go, who I leave behind or what I take. It just matters that the same legs that took me to the ice cream truck are still forging a path. It simply matters that I go and open my heart when I arrive.