Today would have been my grandparents’ 72nd wedding anniversary. I miss them every day.
Here’s a show I made about my grandpa:
The Jazz Session #100: Bernie Flanders
…and a poem inspired by my grandma:
Thanksgiving
She leans down to set the turkey
on the table.
Everyone looks up with reverence.
She’s been in the kitchen all day.
The room is awash in autumn browns
and reds; the colors so strong
you can almost smell them. Deep magenta
cranberry sauce — the real thing,
Not the jellied kind.
Creamy white mashed potatoes,
First plunge of the spoon.
A crock of earth-brown gravy and the smile
on Grandpa’s face. He never
Has to take seconds, because everyone
passes him their leftover turkey leg
or slice of pie.
This table holds four generations —
some who remember when a dinner
like this cost two weeks’ wages, and
the turkey was fresh-killed that
morning in the steaming barn of a
farm on the edge of town.
The littlest among them are amazed to
see so much fresh food. They don’t
understand why the meal takes
so many hours to make, and they’re tired
and a little cranky by the time fork
tings against knife.
If they’re lucky, they’ll remember enough
of this embrace of family and food to
repaint this picture for their
own children. They’ll try to explain
how Grandma’s kitchen smelled,
and they’ll be more than a little saddened
by the haze that has obscured memory.
Now, as she sets the turkey at the
head of the table, ready for his
sure hands on the carving knife,
the future is an unclouded line of
possibilities, and every year will
follow this one – warm, autumnal.
…and a a poem about my grandpa.
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