As the Wind Blows Leaves from Trees

For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.
~Edwin Way Teale


      The wind today could blow your soul away. 
      It never feels like that any time of year but autumn; when I was a child, I thought God made it specially for blowing leaves away.  It is the same wind, but there aren't as many leaves to blow around Puget Sound as there were in Wisconsin. 
      Perhaps that's why it moves other things too. 
      I've always loved this season most; even more with no risk of snow, and lush evergreens amid the branches stripped for winter.  I thought this one, at last living somewhere I don't want to leave, would be the best of the best.  It was shaping up to be, until I heard about Grandma.
      "What I think you need to understand is how SERIOUS breaking a hip is when you're 90.  They rarely live more than a year with the decreased mobility.  It was just so HARD listening to her at the hospital, not making any sense...  She wanted the keys to the house.  I left wondering if she would even still be here today..."
      "Mom, I can come if you need me.  Maybe for Thanksgiving, especially if she's that bad..."
      "Oh, no.  As much as we would LOVE to see you, it isn't that serious."
      Sometimes I think my Mom doesn't watch soap operas because she makes her own.  This is her mother though, and she always copes by steeling herself for the worst. 
      I suddenly wish I wasn't so far away.
      The trouble with coming from a family like mine is perhaps one person per generation moves.  There's not that many of us, but everyone lives within a hundred miles of each other.  I knew I would be this generation's escapee, as I thought of it in surly adolescent fantasies. 
      Unfortunately, I started wandering when they began to die.

      Every year, we met for Thanksgiving at my Great- Uncle Merrill and Aunt Lucille's farmhouse.  It was like a family-made law of nature; leaves turned colors, squirrels gathered nuts, and we showed up around noon, to dinners so identical from one year to the next, I felt trapped in a time loop. 
      Norman Rockwell could have happily retired after painting it. 
      We'd always start with little cordial glasses of sparkling grape juice, and toast another year after saying grace.  There would be a whole turkey roasted in the big old enamel pan, with homemade stuffing, thick gravy, and French-cut green beans with fried onions and cream of mushroom soup.  It was the only place I ever had, or heard of, riced potatoes.  We even had homemade cranberry relish, every spoonful a punch in the mouth with grated orange peel.  Everything was served in its own special piece of the same ancient china set, and eaten from depression glass plates.  The only thing that ever changed was the pumpkin pie, but only because Mom could never settle on a recipe.  It was so yesteryear I couldn't stand it, except for Grandma's fruit Jello mold and Great-Aunt Fern's banana bread.  As buried as I felt in wholesomeness, nothing store-bought compared to those. 
      After dinner, the men would talk, or snore, from their respective comfy chairs in the parlor.  The women did the dishes, by hand.  Family Fun commenced when they came out of the kitchen: either a thick photo album would appear, or they'd cut loose and play a board game.
      "Gag me with the wishbone," I'd think, and go for a walk. 
      The farm had stopped working before I was born, but rented out the fields and pasture.  I'd wander through the unused buildings, looming silent as abandoned theaters, and watch dusty shafts of sunlight drift across the rafters.  Then I'd walk the border woods, and enjoy the crisp breeze stirring the leaves; free of the woolly mothball smell of old house, and long-winded stories about people I never knew. 
      The day dragged on forever, in TV-less, music-less, family togetherness.  Every year the same, forever.  Until Aunt Lucille died.

      I was still there for the first Thanksgiving with an empty chair.  It was even quieter than usual.  Almost a memorial service, almost the same as always, with insistence that I stay for the photo albums and stories this time.  The way she would have wanted it.  I did my best to not let my mind wander too much.
      The next year, Aunt Fern moved to a nursing home.  I was out of state and moving on by the time It rolled around again.  I told myself, "there won't be any banana bread, so what's the point?"  Grandma would still make her Jello next time, with that delicious mystery-cream mixed in, because it was a special occasion to see me now.   
      My great homecoming visit was the First Thanksgiving Without the Farm.  Uncle Merrill had died that spring, and his property was sold for development. 
      Having lived for a few years on diners and microwavable slop, I'd developed a deep, ravenous love for my Mom's culinary abilities.  She had given it her all, but nothing tasted quite as good.  The drop-leaf table in the dining room, with a beautiful centerpiece and candles lit, had never looked so small and plain.  No one said so, of course, but there weren't many talking anyway.
      My parents and I played a quick board game, then I drove Grandma home.  I tried to understand what she mumbled to me on the way.  Aunt Fern didn't know who we were most of the time anymore, so we sent her a card.
      I was out of the time loop, and couldn't wait for that day to end either.
      That was my last Thanksgiving with the family.  My parents tell me not to inconvenience myself this year; I've got so much going on right now and it would be better to save a visit for when I'm ready.  They say Grandma's nursing home has a nice buffet planned for residents and their families.  Only $7.95 per person, all you can eat.  I don't know if there will be a next Thanksgiving with her.  But, bad as it must sound, I'm not sure I could stomach catered turkey.  Not with them.

      I remember all those years, when I whined, "can we GO now?" they would tell me,
      "Just enjoy it while it lasts."
      I wish I had known; that I had stopped taking it for granted before it was gone.  I can not blame myself, because some lessons are only learned by living them.
      They knew, and that is why they gathered to do everything the same, year after year.  Life is uncertain, even when you grow up and die in the same house.  We can never know what will still be here, or when someone will go. 
      That is why there is comfort in tradition, and celebrating another year.  That is why we need to gather; too soon we all are gone, as the wind blows leaves from the trees.

Word Count: 1189