Danny Heitman is a columnist for the Baton Rouge Advocate and editor of Phi Kappa Phi’s Forum magazine.
The dining room at my house seats six, and the Thanksgiving guest list for our extended clan has sometimes numbered three times that. Where do we put the extra folks?
It’s a question no doubt being asked in countless American homes this week — and a dilemma older than the republic, as popular images of early Thanksgivings seem to suggest. In “The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth” a 1914 painting by artist Jennie Augusta Brownscombe, the Pilgrims and Native Americans are depicted at the 1621 feast in the open air. A dining table and chairs stand under a lovely autumn sky, ostensibly because small dwellings like the cabin in the background are too cramped for the large circle of celebrants.
Such imaginings of that founding celebration, whatever their historical embellishments, point to a spirit of improvisation that has long been part of the Thanksgiving story. This is a day to haul card tables from the closet and drape them in linen, then spread a few TV trays near the fireplace to accommodate the army of in-laws and siblings marching up the driveway. Our makeshift hospitality affirms our willingness to stretch ourselves to welcome those we treasure, even if it means humbling exercises in expedience.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself when our family’s Thanksgiving roster of relatives compels me to wonder how I’ll shoehorn a dozen and a half loved ones into our modest suburban home. The Martin boys, my three grown nephews, are outdoor types, so they’ll take the patio, eating turkey and dressing in a pleasant corner of our shaded yard. One of the small dividends of living in Louisiana is that even at Christmas, the temps can be mild enough for alfresco meals.
I usually join the Martins and another nephew, Asher, eavesdropping while the young sportsmen debate who killed the biggest deer this season, who has the smartest dog. As they kid each other about the mysteries of marksmanship and canine intelligence, I work through my green beans and macaroni and cheese, glancing at the leaf drop from our birches and elm. Like sand through an hourglass, the steady fall of foliage tells me that I’m closing yet another year within the rich folds of family.
I slip back inside for dessert, where other guests have found seats in the living room. My sister Cindy prefers a spot near the hearth, balancing a slice of pecan pie on her lap while she gazes through open shutters at a bird feeder humming with finches. Soft November sun floods the room, brightening each familiar visitor with a kind of halo of benediction. When the afternoon light is just right within these walls, as it often is during the russet weeks of autumn, my roomful of relations can look like a painting by a Dutch master, their gestures dramatized by the glow from nearby windows. In counting these faces each Thanksgiving, I count my blessings.
Tucked into my armchair with a slab of cake, I can hear my grown daughter and her cousin Allie a few feet away in the den, where they’ve repurposed the coffee table as a lunch setting for two. On the stepping stones of successive Thanksgivings, these two bright souls have journeyed together from girlhood to womanhood. Their shared laughter, more than sleigh bells or chiming carols, is my opening anthem of the holidays.
I finish lunch with coffee on the porch, another spot for stray diners. My adult son and I claim two rocking chairs and catch up on his life far away, yawning as our full bellies threaten to nudge us into sleep.
There are times when I dream of a grand room and a huge table, one large enough to seat everyone in my Thanksgiving world in one place, just as Norman Rockwell might like it.
But our usual seating chart, with clutches of family nestled wherever they can roost, has its own charms. In migrating from room to room each holiday, I see my life as a series of scenes — a stage play populated by characters who have given my year an absorbing variety. I’m not sure I would have noticed my good luck if this varied tribe I call my own were all ranged around a shared ring of place settings, like diplomats at a peace conference.
For now, I’ll continue to embrace the Thanksgiving I have, with loved ones spilling from every room like a human horn of plenty. If grandchildren begin to arrive, though, we might have to borrow some chairs.
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