THANKFUL

On the day before Thanksgiving last year, I greeted two dozen family members who came to enjoy one last New England Thanksgiving at our home in Kennebunk Beach.

We almost didn’t gather together. 

Mr. Wonderful and I had sold our house on Oak Street and were renting from the kind new owners while our new house in the Wells woods was under construction. How could I keep my hooched-up Hogan relatives under control over four days and nights so that I didn’t need Roto-Rooter or ServiceMaster’s Xtreme Clean for three straight days after they left.

But despite my rental concerns, the steep air fares and demanding work schedules, nothing thwarted their arrivals from California, Colorado, New Mexico, Florida, South Carolina, New Jersey, New York and New Hampshire. They ranged in age from an adorable nine-year-old to a venerable 83-year-old, and they knew how to party.  As my Hogan mother would often say, “That’s the Irish in us.”

We operated out of three houses — Mr. Wonderful’s and mine, our daughter’s next door, and a friend’s lovely home overlooking the Atlantic.  Bedroom meant “room in a bed,” but 32 Oak Street was Action Central.

I immediately put several strong lads to work, moving arm chairs, lamps and tables from our combined dining-family room into the living room. After they repositioned the Parsons-style dining table, they found and placed 24 chairs, including the piano bench, around the table, now stretched to its three-leaf max.

Everyone helped. Liz peeled potatoes and made apple-sausage stuffing. Amy cooked a green bean casserole. Alex and Tim hauled in two 25-pound turkeys, plus buckets of Brussel sprouts. Shirley ironed every linen napkin I own to decorate the table. Robert, Chris and Jen,  and Lisa provided cases of champagne and wine, while nephew Pat (a Stanley Hotel-trained bartender) stacked red Solo cups next to a magnum of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey.

Nighttime was game time. The Shark speakers pulsated with Leon Bridges, the Lumineers and the Revivalists (not exactly toe-tappers to me, by the way). Some cousins played full-throttled Charades (Titicaca?  Really, Theo!) and Pictionary in front of the roaring fire. Others joined RummiKub and Russian Bank card competitions at the kitchen island. 

Around 10, Grandpa Bob led the group in a rousing rendition of “Kennebunk Beach,” then he took out his hearing aids and went to bed, blissfully oblivious to the cacophonous pandemonium 10 feet from his bedroom door. “Slept like a baby,” he said the next morning.

A few days ago my niece Katie, who with her husband Chad flew in from California and made a surprise appearance, wrote: “So glad we were able to have our final Kennebunk Beach Thanksgiving one year ago. All squeezed into the horse-drawn wagon while singing loudly and riding through town, serving ourselves from the buffet-style bounty of home-cooked holiday dishes, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the Thanksgiving table. And thoroughly enjoying the family togetherness and closeness.”

I’m thankful for last November’s memories. This Thanksgiving will be different. But hope springs eternal that next year we all can celebrate good times and family Thanksgivings without masks and social-distancing — us and you too.