a place at the table

The Thanksgivings of my youth were big - really big - bursting with relatives and friends, many of whom I did not know, or only encountered annually at my great grandmother’s farm in Chestertown, Maryland.

We gathered for a feast that consisted of roasted turkeys (that my sisters and I had chosen and named before their heads were chopped off in the backyard), baked yams topped with browned marshmallows, and a large ramekin of creamed onions. We wore party dresses and shiny shoes, and played hide-and-seek with cousins - lots of cousins - in the boxwoods that surrounded the house on the edge of the Chesapeake River.

When it was time to sit down, most of the adults found their seats at the long, antique table in the formal dining room; overflow would be relegated to a side table in an adjoining room. The kids gathered at yet another table (“the kids’ table”) created out of a few folding card tables that were pushed together and covered with white linen.

But no matter the table that your age or status determined, there would always be a place card at your seat, with a small seasonal decoration on it and my great grandmother’s scripted handwriting; on mine: Icy.

And finding my name seemed to indicate that I belonged to this large crew, however unfamiliar they were, and that someone cared enough about me to include me at the table. While millions of families were celebrating this holiday across our country, there was a place for me right here in a small town in Maryland. It was always reassuring to feel a part of something much greater than myself.

And while there are many things that I am grateful for this time of year, having family and friends, and a place and a belonging in their lives, top the list.

I am aware that this is a luxury that not everyone has. For some, belonging can feel nonexistent, and having a place - let alone a table - can be hard to find. This is a privilege that has been afforded me my entire life, and I am grateful.

We no longer gather on the Chesapeake River. My great grandmother has long since passed, and my family has scattered across the country. Our Thanksgivings are smaller, there is not as much fanfare, they are far more casual, and we don’t name the turkeys that we plan to eat.

But we set the table carefully, bringing out our finest china that spends most of the year tucked away in a cupboard, and trimming the tabletop with Thanksgiving décor that has been passed down for generations. We watch football and play it, not in party shoes but sneakers that are more practical in the sometimes-muddy backyard.

And when it is time to sit down, we congregate around our formal dining room table, looking for our seat. And no matter who has joined us for our Thanksgiving dinner, there is always a place card, not in my great grandmother’s script, but in my less-legible scribble.

And there it is, my name: Icy; I have found my place. What a privilege and luxury it is to know that I belong right here, and I am grateful for my seat at this table, in a wonderful town in Connecticut, on the banks of the Long Island Sound.

Happy Thanksgiving!