Thanksgiving was never an important holiday for me. Gathering the family from near and far for a celebratory meal wasn’t unusual; our family was composed of Italians and a small sprinkling of Irish.
We enjoyed the turkey and stuffing (no one called it dressing) and the various jewel-toned condiments; the sunset-hued sweet potatoes and their mashed cousins swimming in butter; and, of course, my mother’s famous whiskey-soaked pumpkin pies.
But to be honest, it wasn’t all that special to me. Until it became the most important day in my life.
In 1981, I was a junior at Bryn Mawr College, majoring in French. In April of that year, my father surprised me with the gift of a year abroad studying in France. I hadn’t expected it or even particularly wanted to go.
Weekly trips from the beautiful Bryn Mawr campus into Philadelphia were enough traveling for me. However, my father made the year in Paris seem like a great life-changing adventure, partly because he’d convinced me. Still, mostly because I didn’t want to disappoint him, I agreed to go.
And then, the unthinkable happened.
On May 9, 1981, my father went to the doctor to find out why he’d been losing weight and coughing. This runner and weightlifter, who’d given up smoking five years before and was eating healthy food, was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Doctors gave him one year to live, at most.
After the shock wore off, our family mobilized into action. Ted Flowers wasn’t going to go gentle into that good night. At 42, with a flourishing law practice and six people who adored him, this redheaded Irishman had everything to live for.
He refused to let me cancel the trip. I remember his exact words: “You are not sitting at home to watch me die! I’ll be fine. I promise you, Chrissy. And I’ll be here when you get home.”
Resistance was futile. So, on Sept. 11, 1981, I began the adventure I didn’t want.
I’ll admit the first few weeks were tough. Overall, I could function pretty well because I was 19, and this was, after all, Paris. My little apartment was in the scenic center of a bustling neighborhood. I lived around the corner from the Rodin museum, and there were patisseries at virtually every corner.
Then, it was the third week of November, and … nothing. Not a turkey or pilgrim in sight. No reference to thanks, to pumpkin pie or even to disgusting cranberry molds. The French had no use for it, at least not 43 years ago.
And so, sad and lonely, I created my private celebration. I bought an apple tarte tatin and pretended it was a pumpkin. I went to the Jardin de Luxembourg and gathered up the few remaining fallen leaves, brought them home, and sprinkled them in my folding table. I bought two ham and cheese sandwiches on French bread and a half bottle of wine.
And then I prayed that my father would live forever.
That night, I called my family. They were six hours behind, preparing to sit down for their meal. My father took the phone, and his voice, weak but still recognizable, was the greatest blessing.
My father died six months later, on May 8, 1982. Part of me wishes I’d been there for that last year. But deep inside, I know that my Thanksgiving thousands of miles away was his last gift to me, the gift of freedom, of adventure, of independence, of protection against the daily grief of seeing him fade.
And I realize that my Thanksgiving in Paris was the most authentic and powerful holiday I’ve ever experienced. Because it indeed was the best manifestation of gratitude, blessing and thanks.
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