mind of mencius

Thanksgiving is always a production of great proportion. For the 48 hours leading up to this year’s launch, the Moms and I were largely preparing for company. Cooking, cleaning, setting tables, doing laundry, polishing silver, picking up, etc. Keep in mind that I am greatly exagerrating my role here–the Moms did most of the work, I did crossword puzzles and helped out when told. Jenn made beer and a coconut-cream pie. As he always does, Tim did all of the unsung things to make the holiday run smoothly.

No Circle of Thanks for the family this year. We tried it once, a few years ago, and it felt forced. But ours has never really been an openly thankful family. We aren’t much open about anything–perhaps only our openly decadent Thanksgiving. The Moms made a turkey AND a ham, along with stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, creamed onions and pan-drippings gravy. All of this for twelve people. The morning aftermath took five hours coming clean.

Enough to field a small army. Which is more in character for these two, given the small armies my parents feed on a weekly basis. For as long as I can remember, Tim and the Moms have been weekly (or more often) fixtures at dinner on Seattle’s James Street. Plastic silver and paper china stacked high next to feasts spread out on foldable banquet tables, kept warm in coolers previously reserved for family camping trips. Their dinner guests on these occassions are Seattle’s assembled homeless, often numbering over a hundred.

These evenings are my parents’ Mencian thanksgivings, when they extend toward others those gestures most reserve for friends and family. My grandfather started the programme about fifteen years ago, while I was in middle school. Where once my extended family formed the serving line’s majority, now only Tim and the Moms remain. And with little fanfare, their thanks for what they have is passed out meal by meal, week by week to those who find themselves homeless.

Which is why Thanksgiving often feels so forced and decadent. The cooking, the cleaning, the focus on the well-being of our family to the exclusion of all else, runs contrary to the holiday’s onstensible spirit. The silence in my house on Friday morning, the hangover from indulgence, lasts all day. The Moms lies in bed, alternately sleeping and staring out the window. Tim holes himself up in his office, keeping himself busier than he need be.

The hangover will last through the weekend. Through the leftovers. Through the post-holiday phone calls and through Monday’s resumption of Business As Usual. For Tim and the Moms, the malaise will linger until Tuesday evening on James Street, when real thanksgiving begins again. For me, I will sit in silence, in the guilt of indulgence, and wonder when I will learn this thing called gratitude.