Traditions and Expectations

Thanksgiving and Shopping November 26 2009


“Are you going shopping tomorrow?” asked Russ, my son-in-law, as I prepared to leave their house today after a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.

Truthfully, I hadn’t even contemplated the idea, although for years, when I was still with Ron, the day after Thanksgiving was our family shopping day. We would have traveled for the annual extended family feast, driving from St. Louis north through Chicago to Ron’s family’s home in Gary, Indiana. We usually left our house either early on Thanksgiving morning, or on Wednesday, the preceding day, along with everyone else making the annual pilgrimage toward home for Thanksgiving. Leaving on Wednesday involved some degree of deception, since the college where we taught always scheduled classes on the day and evening before Thanksgiving, even though 90% of the students would be absent. We’d give alternative assignments so that we didn’t have to be in class just to take attendance with two or three die-hards. There was no point holding class with virtually no one there.

Generally, especially if we drove up on Wednesday, by the time we got to the Chicago area, around rush hour, it would be snowing, traffic would be snarled, moving at most a couple of miles an hour, and we’d arrive in Gary much later than we had anticipated, cold and exhausted. The family meal at Grandma Olga’s and Grandpa Walter’s house – later at Ron’s sister Carol’s house -- was festive and delicious. Everyone brought food, so the fare was bountiful and varied.

Going shopping on the day after Thanksgiving was just as predictable as eating till we were stuffed, then taking a walk to try to revive ourselves on Thanksgiving Day itself.

For many years on the day after Thanksgiving, we took the South Shore Railroad from Gary to the Loop, stopping first at the Museum of Science and Industry, then spending the afternoon shopping. For me, it meant a delightful couple of free hours wandering through the wonderful bookstore Kroch’s and Brentano’s, on Michigan Avenue. We’d establish a meeting time, usually around 5, at the South Shore station, to share the return trip to Gary, and would arrive laden with heavy, lumpy shopping bags, tired and happy to be going back for turkey sandwiches with all the fixings, remaining from the day before.

The South Shore had seen better days. The cars had been splendid in the 1930s. By the 80s, they were shabby and threadbare. They rattled loudly, and the wind chill factor from ill-fitting windows was only overcome by maintaining the interior thermostat somewhere above 80 degrees. So we were chilled and roasted at the same time. I remember one time, the doors didn’t work right, and wouldn’t open while the train was stopped at the Museum station. They only, finally, opened once the train started up again. Ron leapt from the moving train onto the platform, then Liessa. Panicked, I felt compelled to join them, though the train was probably going 15 miles an hour and was accelerating rapidly by the time my turn came. I had no idea how I would ever find them again in Chicago if I didn’t jump. I was terrified. Fortunately, I was still relatively young at that point, and my joints and muscles had a bit of “give” still. We all survived the ordeal with no serious, lasting injuries.

Life situations change, of course, and as a result, so do traditions. Ron’s parents moved from the Glen Park section of Gary, where they’d lived since they’d been married, to Schererville, a suburb. His brother moved to Michigan City, away from the Chicago area. Michigan City had just developed a very large Factory Outlet Mall, and since we were staying there now, with Ron’s brother, on our annual Thanksgiving visits, we all started spending the day after Thanksgiving at the Outlet Mall, completing much of our holiday shopping on that one day. It was still an annual ritual -- compulsory, it seemed – what else would we do on that otherwise blank day?

This type of shopping is a strange mutation of the basic life activity of hunter-gatherer societies. Forays out into the wilderness might provide excellent materials for food and clothing – or not. One had favorite places to go, that were more likely to provide the sought after bounty. It was a social ritual in which people engaged within their clan or tribal groups. For a day each year, we relived prehistoric human activities, hunting with our wallets instead of bows and arrows.

Every year for 33 years, as long as our nuclear family remained intact, Ron, Liessa, and I made this annual trip. Although the last Thanksgiving we spent in Indiana is now more than 12 years ago, it still seems strange not to make an annual pilgrimage for the Thanksgiving feast, and also not to go shopping on the day after Thanksgiving. I’m glad that Liessa and Russ are now hosting Thanksgiving dinners, and that I live nearby and am able to join them, now that I’m alone.

Thanksgiving traditions tend to last a very long time. Inertia and a love for ritual keeps us following the same ones, spending the holiday with the same “Thanksgiving family” members until life changes make continuing impossible. Ellen, when you and I got together, we tried very hard to become the nucleus for such a Thanksgiving family. You had been trying to accomplish this for years before we met. We never got a stable group of friends and family who would come year after year – each year we had to start over, and invite new people. Fortunately, there are always people whose lives have changed, and who are without a place where they’re automatically expected, so we always had a good group. But it was disappointing not to succeed in establishing a Thanksgiving ritual for ourselves. I guess some people are just destined to be hosts, and others guests. After all, one couldn’t have these large annual gatherings without a good number of guests to attend them!



Feeling Detached November 26 2009

I feel nomadic, now that I’m alone and old –

Unattached, unanchored among humans.

My life and actions float each day

From place to place.

I seek connections, would welcome some routine,

Some place where I’m needed and expected,

Where other people nod to greet me --

Chatting easily, smiling their delight.

Some place where if I didn’t show up as expected,

They’d miss me, try to find me, make sure I was all right.

Then I might still feel I belonged somewhere.