The tourist season in the Smoky Mountains runs from May to the end of October. During these months visitors enjoy hiking, canoeing, and camping, escaping the heat of July and August in the Deep South states, touring sites like Cherokee, the Great Smoky Mountain Railway, and the Biltmore Estate, and drinking in the beauty of October when the leaves of the trees paint the mountains red and gold.
By mid-November the Blue Ridge Parkway begins shutting down, the traffic thins out on the sidewalks and streets, and some of the seasonal attractions and inns close their doors. By then, in Waynesville, workers have decorated Main Street for Christmas, and merchants are advertising for the holidays and hoping sales will carry them through the bare winter months and into spring. November brings leaden skies and gray rains and sometimes a flurry or two of snow. November brings the beginning of the quiet time in the mountains.
November also brings Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving at the Palmer House meant the gathering of family—grandparents, siblings, and an increasing tribe of nephews and nieces—for a four-day celebration of that most relaxed of American holidays. For nearly the entire time we owned the Palmer House, we celebrated Thanksgiving there with my brothers and sisters, their children, my mom and her husband Don, and after Mom’s death, Carol, who easily slipped into our growing clan. Though our numbers fluctuated every year, we probably averaged twenty-five people in the house every Thanksgiving.
Out of this gathering grew traditions. We cooked up the staples of the day, of course: turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, and corn. But there were specialties as well that became traditions. My sister-in-law Robin was known for her homemade rolls. One of my sisters would bring my mom’s “green salad,” a concoction of Jell-O, whipped cream, and condiments that Mom had served for as long as I could remember. Mimi Carol’s “Treat,” a rich dessert, was always in great demand, particularly among the younger members of the crew. In addition to beer and wine for the adults, chilled bottles of sparkling cider, apple and grape, were a hit with young and old, so much so that to this day turkey always tastes better to me when accompanied by this beverage.
Until they reached a certain age, the younger ones sat at “the children’s table,” one of those bright plastic affairs I would haul down from the schoolroom. Before the meal we would clasp hands and pray the Moravian blessing, and then take turns naming something we were thankful for that year. One humorous tradition involved my wife Kris. Never much of a cook or homemaker, Kris would often slip off for a nap before the meal and would have to be wakened to come and eat.
These get-togethers were rowdy affairs, with discussions of politics, religion, and other family differences sometimes producing flashes of temper and hurt feelings. When the children were toddlers, adults bounced up and down from the tables every few minutes, wiping up spills, trotting potty-trainees off to a bathroom, pouring drinks and serving food. As the cousins became adolescents, the bouncing tapered away, but the laughter and the talk grew louder and brighter.
Such traditions, even the raucous behavior and noise, are important. They are one of the building blocks for family. Once a schoolteacher I knew from Tennessee, a novice in the classroom who was desperate to give an in-class writing assignment to her tenth graders, directed her students to write an essay on meals eaten with their families. Most of them laughed at her. It turned out that of the twenty-two students, only two sat down in the evening for a supper with the family. The rest either took the food to watch television in their bedrooms or grazed the refrigerator. “All right,” my friend said. “Then write a description about your Thanksgiving meal.” Again, the same reaction. In nearly all cases, the holiday dinner sat on the kitchen counter, to be picked over and consumed by whim throughout the afternoon and evening.
When my friend told this story, and when I thought of my own Thanksgiving meals, I felt a deep sadness for those students.
After I sold the Palmer House, we gathered as a clan for a few more years, twice using the church hall of a local Methodist church to accommodate everyone, but gradually the event included fewer and fewer people. The cousins are scattered up and down the East Coast, and I frequently go to Virginia to be near some of my children. Two of my sisters have continued the tradition of this gathering, but it is a bit more subdued now in tone.
Often different family members have offered toasts at these gatherings. Once my nephew Ben, who was probably fifteen or sixteen, raised his glass and said something to this effect: “Someday when all you old people here are dead and gone, I just hope we cousins can keep this tradition going.”
Because of the innocence in which it was offered, Ben’s toast about the old people being “dead and gone” bought down the house. But in spite of the wording, his sentiment was right on target. The tradition of this sort of meal for my children, nieces, and nephews, whether shared together or within their own group of siblings and in-laws, is a part of the glue that holds families together.
One final thought is due here. For Catholics, there are four types of prayer: adoration, contrition, supplication, and thanksgiving. Like most people, I am reasonably adept at contrition and supplication, especially when loved ones face troubles, and even adoration, but thanksgiving rarely enters into my prayer life. Only in the last decade have I become more consciously aware of gratitude, which is thanksgiving under another name. Like some of you, I once tended to count the negatives in my life rather than the blessings. Slowly, perhaps because I am alone more, my life having become less of a roller coaster ride and more a walk in the park, I’m find myself giving thanks for the small blessings of each day—the way an early morning wraps itself around my porch, the jokes and good humor of my children, the laughter and observations of my grandchildren, the comforts offered by family and friends.
Writing here, remembering, recollecting those Thanksgivings, even the ones when I misbehaved or showed anger, I feel grateful for those celebrations at the Palmer House, those feasts when our family unwittingly created a sacrament of love.
November also brings Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving at the Palmer House meant the gathering of family—grandparents, siblings, and an increasing tribe of nephews and nieces—for a four-day celebration of that most relaxed of American holidays. For nearly the entire time we owned the Palmer House, we celebrated Thanksgiving there with my brothers and sisters, their children, my mom and her husband Don, and after Mom’s death, Carol, who easily slipped into our growing clan. Though our numbers fluctuated every year, we probably averaged twenty-five people in the house every Thanksgiving.
Out of this gathering grew traditions. We cooked up the staples of the day, of course: turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, and corn. But there were specialties as well that became traditions. My sister-in-law Robin was known for her homemade rolls. One of my sisters would bring my mom’s “green salad,” a concoction of Jell-O, whipped cream, and condiments that Mom had served for as long as I could remember. Mimi Carol’s “Treat,” a rich dessert, was always in great demand, particularly among the younger members of the crew. In addition to beer and wine for the adults, chilled bottles of sparkling cider, apple and grape, were a hit with young and old, so much so that to this day turkey always tastes better to me when accompanied by this beverage.
Until they reached a certain age, the younger ones sat at “the children’s table,” one of those bright plastic affairs I would haul down from the schoolroom. Before the meal we would clasp hands and pray the Moravian blessing, and then take turns naming something we were thankful for that year. One humorous tradition involved my wife Kris. Never much of a cook or homemaker, Kris would often slip off for a nap before the meal and would have to be wakened to come and eat.
These get-togethers were rowdy affairs, with discussions of politics, religion, and other family differences sometimes producing flashes of temper and hurt feelings. When the children were toddlers, adults bounced up and down from the tables every few minutes, wiping up spills, trotting potty-trainees off to a bathroom, pouring drinks and serving food. As the cousins became adolescents, the bouncing tapered away, but the laughter and the talk grew louder and brighter.
Such traditions, even the raucous behavior and noise, are important. They are one of the building blocks for family. Once a schoolteacher I knew from Tennessee, a novice in the classroom who was desperate to give an in-class writing assignment to her tenth graders, directed her students to write an essay on meals eaten with their families. Most of them laughed at her. It turned out that of the twenty-two students, only two sat down in the evening for a supper with the family. The rest either took the food to watch television in their bedrooms or grazed the refrigerator. “All right,” my friend said. “Then write a description about your Thanksgiving meal.” Again, the same reaction. In nearly all cases, the holiday dinner sat on the kitchen counter, to be picked over and consumed by whim throughout the afternoon and evening.
When my friend told this story, and when I thought of my own Thanksgiving meals, I felt a deep sadness for those students.
After I sold the Palmer House, we gathered as a clan for a few more years, twice using the church hall of a local Methodist church to accommodate everyone, but gradually the event included fewer and fewer people. The cousins are scattered up and down the East Coast, and I frequently go to Virginia to be near some of my children. Two of my sisters have continued the tradition of this gathering, but it is a bit more subdued now in tone.
Often different family members have offered toasts at these gatherings. Once my nephew Ben, who was probably fifteen or sixteen, raised his glass and said something to this effect: “Someday when all you old people here are dead and gone, I just hope we cousins can keep this tradition going.”
Because of the innocence in which it was offered, Ben’s toast about the old people being “dead and gone” bought down the house. But in spite of the wording, his sentiment was right on target. The tradition of this sort of meal for my children, nieces, and nephews, whether shared together or within their own group of siblings and in-laws, is a part of the glue that holds families together.
One final thought is due here. For Catholics, there are four types of prayer: adoration, contrition, supplication, and thanksgiving. Like most people, I am reasonably adept at contrition and supplication, especially when loved ones face troubles, and even adoration, but thanksgiving rarely enters into my prayer life. Only in the last decade have I become more consciously aware of gratitude, which is thanksgiving under another name. Like some of you, I once tended to count the negatives in my life rather than the blessings. Slowly, perhaps because I am alone more, my life having become less of a roller coaster ride and more a walk in the park, I’m find myself giving thanks for the small blessings of each day—the way an early morning wraps itself around my porch, the jokes and good humor of my children, the laughter and observations of my grandchildren, the comforts offered by family and friends.
Writing here, remembering, recollecting those Thanksgivings, even the ones when I misbehaved or showed anger, I feel grateful for those celebrations at the Palmer House, those feasts when our family unwittingly created a sacrament of love.
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