In Canada, we celebrate Thanksgiving in mid-October. Our American cousins celebrate in November. Despite the different timelines, we share traditions – turkey, the trimmings, the pie, and the overstuffed naps.
But most of all, I think we share a thankfulness for our families.
Now, for me, family isn’t just those who share my blood. My only surviving family member from my childhood is an elderly half-brother who lived hundreds of miles away with my grandmother while I was growing up. Half-brother? Lived apart? Still family! I love him dearly.
My mother suffered from episodes of severe mental illness, interspersed with periods of alcoholic self-medication. This was the root of my extended, non-related family. One neighbour showed up regularly with cabbage rolls and banana bread. Another had me over for sleepovers and would periodically treat me to a spa day – bubble bath, nail soaking, shampoo that smelled like flowers. (In reality, she was likely horrified by my overgrown, grubby nails.) Yet another let me enter her home-based kindergarten a year early. A safe place to be.
I’ve ‘adopted’ family members ever since. Blood has never been a barrier to who I choose to hold dear. We hosted another family with ours every Christmas when my kids were little. The mama in that family is forever my sister. I married a man with two children. They are the children of my heart. I am grandma to their children, just as I am to the other kids’ children.
While our children form the foundation of my family, I’ve heartily welcomed their spouses, and feel affection for those they love. While I’ve had to give up some of my space to their new extended family members, I know what a gift these new families can be. I feel reassured that my children have more people to love them. Now some of the grandchildren are building families. I love them too.
My own in-laws were on my mind this Thanksgiving.
I loved my mother-in-law as my own. Perfect? No. Neither are most mothers, me included. My father-in-law’s continued participation in farm life into his 80s was inspirational. My husband’s siblings became mine. This spring I was reminded how important they’ve been to the fabric of my life. The family farm was being sold, and we gathered one last time in the home they were raised in, the yard where our kids played with their cousins.
It was a magical weekend, interspersed with less magical wood ticks. (I suddenly remembered why I left SE SK).
There was love here. Not the gushy all-over-each-other kind of love. The Dautremonts do things differently – memories, teasing, and silly games around a campfire. These siblings and their spouses range from staunchly atheist to living faith-based lives and everything in between. One was a Conservative politician, another heads a union. Some are pretty well off, others less so. So many differences, and yet what makes this family special is how they can disagree and still draw together when it counts. That’s rare these days, isn’t it? I spend too much time mired in political discord and world events. Immersed in social media, we come to believe the “us vs. them” rhetoric promoted by bots out of Russia. Spending a couple of days with diverse personalities and beliefs, surrounded by love, I felt a calm come over me. At the very least, this part of humanity is getting it right. Their mother wanted them to stay in touch after her death. I hope she saw them that weekend.
Ranging in age from their mid-60s to 75, it struck me that we wouldn’t have many more opportunities to all be together. We live many hours away, and all travel less as we age.
This family isn’t given to saying what they feel for each other. I’m of a different stripe. As we were leaving, I declared, “I want you all to know how very special you are to me.”
These folks, unaccustomed to declaration, teared up a little. It was a good thing.
Family. The adopted, the borrowed, the temporary. All contributed to my life in their own way. I am thankful for all of them.
