Oh, why not, here's the Thanksgiving essay. I'll just let folks know later if it's published.
Dad’s relatives have a working cattle ranch in northern California. As far back as the early 1960’s the families of my grampa and his brother and sister have gathered at this ranch for Thanksgiving. As people have married and had kids and grandkids, the crowd has gotten pretty big. Some years we have 30 to 50 attendees. We’re all assigned different foods and drinks to bring, and most people have some specific task for the holiday. One aunt has brought shrimp cocktail every single year in my memory, and another gathers photos from each year into a fat collection of scrapbooks.
The bunkhouse has a big room with a kitchen at one end and long tables arranged according to how many are coming; there’s a wood fireplace with a barrier around it to keep the toddlers away, and the single-pane windows are always steamy. The window over the sink is usually kept open, and outside there’s fog and mounds of blackberries, and a single giant redwood tree that was planted there in the 1920’s. There's usually a horse or two in the enclosure between the bunkhouse and the barn, and you can hear cattle in the pasture across the dirt road.
When my sister and I were kids, I imagine the ranch was what camp is like for other kids. There were plenty of cousins around to play with, and we’d sleep out in the playhouse and tell ghost stories. The nights were exhilaratingly dark and black, and we lived in fear of wild warthogs. We could walk to the railroad tracks and pick catkins, or down to the river for smooth stones to throw. There were often puppies or kittens in the barn. In the 80’s, when Atari was big, one cousin brought his computer two years in a row, and all we cousins fought over the chance to play Space Invaders. There’s always been a pool table in the room on the far end of the bunkhouse, and that was our favorite room when it was too rainy to ride horses or four-wheelers.
Nowadays the pool room is still the favorite among the kids, especially when they’re too energetic for the crowded dining room. The family keeps getting bigger; they’ve converted one of the bedrooms of the bunkhouse into a nursery and playroom. When we all gather near the redwood for our group photo before dinner, it’s hard to rein everyone in.
Every year that I go to the ranch, I’m amazed. We’re such a large group of people, and sometimes we barely know each other. I have to get Mom’s help identifying how I’m related to people (or not). We’re all so different in the ways we’ve chosen to live our lives. How can something like this reunion last? In fact, considering how industrialized the country is becoming, how long can a ranch like this last?
I guess it’s perfect for Thanksgiving. I certainly try to appreciate the hell out of it while I’m there.
The bunkhouse has a big room with a kitchen at one end and long tables arranged according to how many are coming; there’s a wood fireplace with a barrier around it to keep the toddlers away, and the single-pane windows are always steamy. The window over the sink is usually kept open, and outside there’s fog and mounds of blackberries, and a single giant redwood tree that was planted there in the 1920’s. There's usually a horse or two in the enclosure between the bunkhouse and the barn, and you can hear cattle in the pasture across the dirt road.
When my sister and I were kids, I imagine the ranch was what camp is like for other kids. There were plenty of cousins around to play with, and we’d sleep out in the playhouse and tell ghost stories. The nights were exhilaratingly dark and black, and we lived in fear of wild warthogs. We could walk to the railroad tracks and pick catkins, or down to the river for smooth stones to throw. There were often puppies or kittens in the barn. In the 80’s, when Atari was big, one cousin brought his computer two years in a row, and all we cousins fought over the chance to play Space Invaders. There’s always been a pool table in the room on the far end of the bunkhouse, and that was our favorite room when it was too rainy to ride horses or four-wheelers.
Nowadays the pool room is still the favorite among the kids, especially when they’re too energetic for the crowded dining room. The family keeps getting bigger; they’ve converted one of the bedrooms of the bunkhouse into a nursery and playroom. When we all gather near the redwood for our group photo before dinner, it’s hard to rein everyone in.
Every year that I go to the ranch, I’m amazed. We’re such a large group of people, and sometimes we barely know each other. I have to get Mom’s help identifying how I’m related to people (or not). We’re all so different in the ways we’ve chosen to live our lives. How can something like this reunion last? In fact, considering how industrialized the country is becoming, how long can a ranch like this last?
I guess it’s perfect for Thanksgiving. I certainly try to appreciate the hell out of it while I’m there.