The Widower’s Rant: Lemonade

Dec 3, 2024

5 min read

The first Thanksgiving without Beth has come and passed. I have much to be grateful for. Traditionally, Thanksgiving has been a somewhat odd, if not awkward, holiday for us. Beth often lamented to me about the idea of a holiday where the entire day is spent cooking, snacking, then a limited number of minutes are spent eating with an overarching objective of needing to loosen your belt. She did love Thanksgiving leftover lunch, though. Beth also loved Pumpkin Pie. She loved it so much that she made this incredibly healthy pumpkin pie (sans crust) filling multiple times a year. I long to see the pie plate in our fridge, under wrinkled plastic wrap, missing spoonfuls of filing. She’d leave the spoon in the pie filling so she would not be slowed down when she rediscovered it in the fridge. I don’t miss it enough to make it—I don’t care for Pumpkin Pie. This is an important hint. Please don’t make me a special Pumpkin Pie. It will make me sad, and I won’t eat it, making me feel guilty. So complicated.

When we lived in Irvine, and Beth’s father was still in Newport Beach, he often hosted the typical huge Thanksgiving (and Christmas) dinner with eight (step) grandkids, parents, and other family and friends around an enormous table. When we hosted smaller gatherings at our place, we hauled out the wedding gift China, Silver, and Crystal, as someone married in the 1980s would have. As the number of chairs around the table shrank and we became more focused on the caliber of food than the place setting, we preferred the simplicity of our daily dishes and flatware. My very French Chef winery partner frequently and vociferously educated me about the absurdity of American Turkey as a dry, flavorless protein delivery vehicle. The French are famous for inventing elaborate sauces to make unsavory proteins palatable, so he speaks from well-earned experience. Our wine improved a lot, though.

In recent years, we did not have huge family gatherings simply because we don’t have a huge family. I imagine having a large traditional gathering, minus Beth, would have been challenging for me. Dodged that bullet this year. One of our closest family buddies threw a wonderfully fun Friendsgiving every year until she moved away. I miss that a lot. And for the first time since we bought the house there, I missed the annual Geyserville Tractor Parade. Much missing. A lot of change is wrapped up in a holiday.

My Thanksgiving was quite nice. Lauren could not get away (as is typical for the hospitality industry), but she was able to be with a friend’s family. I went to Curtis’ house and commandeered his kitchen. I suggested C/R go skiing for a half day so I had his house to myself to prep, cook, nap, and hang out with my doggies. After eating too much, and probably a glass or two more than prudent, we watched Young Frankenstein, and I stayed the night. On Sunday, I went back, and Curtis made dinner for us. We watched the season’s penultimate F1 race together. In between, I went on hikes and even a bike ride at the lake. A wonderful, restorative holiday weekend.

As I drove home, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for how nice my life has recently evolved. Living at the lake, being outside, spending time with my son, and having the flexibility of time to see my daughter and friends. So fortunate. Yet I didn’t want it. I did not choose this life. I was conscripted into a new reality without the opportunity to be a conscientious objector. Holding these contradictory thoughts in my head simultaneously was like Matter and Antimatter. I love my life, and I so desperately do not want it.

I want to be in our cozy home in Geyserville. I want Beth to be on the couch by the fire, surrounded by her dogs. I want it back.

Sigh. It’s an impossible wish. Clinging to it tenaciously isn’t making my tomorrow any brighter. But I don’t want to let it go.

The smells of Thanksgiving will forever remind me of a particular family trip. For The Commodore’s 80th birthday bash in New Jersey (and there are stories to be told about that trip!), we all arrived from red-eyes the same morning in Philadephia. The four of us piled into our rental car, and I announced that we desperately needed to fuel the driver with coffee. We pulled into the first Starbucks we saw (okay, I know, we should have gone to a Dunkin’, forgive me), and I asked what everyone would like. Lauren piped up, “Dad, I’m a white girl. I’m having a pumpkin spice latte.” I laugh out loud every time I think of that moment. But I digress.

For several years, my father was the only family on my side within thousands of miles. He rather awkwardly would not spend the night at my home, so he was making a four+ hour roundtrip drive to our house for holiday gatherings. As he aged, I became uncomfortable with his return drive. We offered to cook Thanksgiving dinner for him at his home, but he ceased welcoming us into his home a few years after my Mother died. The best alternative we came up with was to meet at a restaurant near his house. So, for a few years, we had awkward Thanksgivings with him. We turned down invitations to more festive gatherings or hosting at our home to meet my father at the few restaurants serving Thanksgiving to other awkward families. He died in October 2020. Beth and I were thankful we no longer had to plan another awkward Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant near his home. (Rant: Like his Father Before Him)

For Thanksgiving 2023, we planned to have our inaugural holiday dinner at the new Tahoe home with Curtis, who was in the process of moving to Carson City. Pulling into the garage, we were greeted with a collapsed ceiling raining down water. The floor heat hydronic system above sprung a leak and rendered the first floor uninhabitable. We made lemonade out of soggy lemons and brought enough stuff to assemble dinner for the three of us and our dogs at Curtis' unfurnished home. It was wonderful. I’d eagerly trade dozens more house floods for holiday dinners with Beth.

Then we went back to Geyserville to watch the Tractor Parade.

This Thanksgiving, at Curtis’ now furnished home, there was again a table for three. It was wonderful.

I’ve been reminded that life isn’t perfect. Sometimes, the imperfections are minor. Sometimes, the imperfections are the size of the Grand Canyon. But it’s the life you have. As the expression goes, you must play the cards you are dealt.

I love my life. I don’t want this life. Matter and Antimatter coexist like in the Warp Drive from the Starship Enterprise to propel my ship forward. It’s as if I’ve inherited an enormous grove of Lemon trees. I never wanted to be a Lemon grower. But if I stop making Lemonade, the fruit withers on the vine. And we can’t have that.