ALT-4 Breaking with Thanksgiving Tradition
Thanks Giving of the Heart
Thanksgiving 1988 was a difficult one. Dad was struggling and weak. The cancer that invaded his body close to eight year before had taken its vicious toll. Diagnosed with deadly bile duct cancer, the doctors gave us the sad news in March 1980. While they could not predict "when," we were advised that it would be "soon." Mom would not hear of it. She was not ready to lose the love of her life so quickly and she brushed the doctors' assertions aside and helped Dad get dressed after the by-pass surgery. We have things to do," she declared and Dad smiled because he knew that Mom was tougher than even the cancer.
Dad started weekly chemotherapy treatments that were supposed to knock him for a loop and cause his hair to fall out. Instead, Dad's appetite remained intact and his beautiful white hair grew even curlier and longer. At one point, we put his hair into a ponytail like Mom and we all giggled. Dad underwent chemotherapy for over a year and the doctors' marveled at his survival and at the same time scratched their heads since his fate seemed set. The doctors would give us future appointments with caution; truly believing that he would not make it to the next month. Two years after first being diagnosed, Dad told the doctors that the appointments were interfering with schedule. Saturday appointments did not correspond with our weekly trips to Aqueduct or Belmont Park to "visit our money."
Dad still craved hot dogs and French fries. And that is why on a cold November afternoon in 1988 when Dad who with time had grown older, thinner, and less steady on his feet declared it was time to see Coney Island again. Bundled up against the cold ocean air, we walked arm and arm down the wooden boardwalk of his youth. Stopping just for a few moments, Dad and I looked out into the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and he showed me where sky and sea met. He told me that is where G-d lived and where he too would live one day soon. And then with a shrug and a sigh we walked hand and hand to Nathan's and had ourselves our own party of sorts. Hot dog never tasted quite as juicy and delicious and the fries were crispy with just the right amount of salt. We talked and we laughed. We spoke about life and we came home with the remnants of this extraordinary day in our hearts.
Thanksgiving has always been a special day in our family. My earliest memories were of the Holiday being spent with my family. Mom would always make turkey and we would always say our prayers. The only Thanksgiving that we did not celebrate was when Robert was in Vietnam serving his nation years before. But, thank G-d, he returned home and had gotten married. He and Gail invited Mom, Dad, and I to their festive Thanksgiving dinner table. There would be a houseful of people and a joyous time. Mom knew that Dad was too weak to attend and so they begged off. But, Mom and Dad encouraged me to attend anyway. I was torn. I really wanted to have a joyous holiday and yet I did not want to leave Dad or Mom.
Dad asked for one of his favorite meals-instead of turkey and all the holiday fixings, he wanted veal chops and mashed potatoes. Surely not the usual Thanksgiving fare. AndI stayed home with Mom and Dad in their small Brooklyn kitchen. It was an evening of joy and sadness, hope and reality all wrapped into one. Mom fried the veal chops to perfection after dipping them into matzo meal and egg. She put slices of onions in her well-worn frying pan. I watched as she put mounds of butter and a large helping of milk into her boiled potatoes making a creamy mixture. And for dessert we had apple sauce and sponge cake with tea. It was meal that remains in my heart to this day.
Before heading off to sleep, Dad announced that this would be a year of many Thanksgivings. The next few months were not easy for Dad as he slowly slipped away from us. It was a time of reflection and anticipation. Dad touched the face of G-d on August 1st 1989 after suffering a fatal heart attack. His last words to my beloved mother were, "Thank you." Two months to the day that we buried Dad, his first grandchild, a sweet little girl with her grandfather's eyes was born. In many ways it truly was as Dad had said, "A true thanks giving from
