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.