A thin, older man dressed in black, with sparse hair and a grey beard walks by our house a few times a week. He walks steadily and with purpose.
If I’m outside and ask how he’s doing, he always says: Blessed and grateful.
His response initially surprised me. Now, when I spot him I hear those words and remember what’s most important.
For me, February brings Thanksgiving, and is all about remembering to be grateful for life’s blessings.
Deep Sleep
For two weeks in November, 2009, my dad slept deeply in a darkened, intensive care room in Akron, Ohio, while the melodies of George Gershwin and George Winston softly played over the quiet whooshing of the ventilator breathing for him.
He fought a life-threatening infection in his lungs and belly. My family and I had made the room as quiet and soothing as possible, so he could devote every ounce of his energy to surviving.
My dad’s longtime girlfriend and my younger sister and I — then 39 and his eldest daughter — took shifts sitting beside him, encouraging him to fight and live. Every day, his hand warmed in mine as I told him stories of good, shared memories.
By Thanksgiving, he had kicked the infection, was breathing on his own and awake — but quite loopy from the medicine and facing a long recovery ahead. He told us how he repeatedly dreamed he had been in a car accident and of a transfer station near the hospital. He spent his favorite holiday there, so we promised him a full turkey dinner a few months later, when he was better.
Memorable Gathering
That turkey dinner in the middle of February was a wonderful evening for our family. The crystal and china sparkled around the antique table in the old, renovated barn my dad shared with his longtime girlfriend. Like most families, ours has been, you could say, somewhat dysfunctional and includes several ex-spouses and steps. My charming Dad was not so easy to be married to.
But we had all put old arguments aside during his illness to help him and each other. Our family had actually functioned and that evening genuine joy and gratitude for his life flowed around the dining table.
So we made it an annual tradition. For the next two years, we gathered in February for a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings.
Loss and a New Home
By February 2013, I was dragging myself through each day. My dad died that January, almost exactly six months after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I was devastated and exhausted by grief and his illness.
And — gratefully so — I also had a new family to care for. I’d just moved in with my now-husband and stepsons, transplanting myself to a small farm town where I knew almost no one but my new family.
My first marriage had failed. It brought no children, but had brought me here to central Pennsylvania, closer to my parents in Cleveland and to a place where I met and fell in love with an amazing, good, handsome man and his sons.
Mike and I traveled to Cleveland that February for Thanksgiving, when he met my dad before the cancer came. That August, when dad was very sick after a chemo treatment, he traveled here to meet our boys because he knew it would mean the world to me.
To Mike and I, family is paramount. But there would be no big family turkey dinner that February, my first winter in Big Valley. Too much. Too soon. Too tired.
A New Tradition
My husband, as is his gift, followed through the next year. Now, every year he reserves the hunting camp he belongs to in Rothrock State Forest, with the six-burner stove and two ovens, huge tables and a bunk room upstairs. He and his father and uncle are members. Our boys love going to camp. They are all hunters and use it during the season.
In the off-season, which includes February, camp is perfect for family get-aways and hosting a big turkey dinner.
So when the calendar turns to February, the preparations are in full-swing. I finalize the menu, gather the assorted recipes and make the big shopping list. Always turkey and potatoes, pies made from scratch and fresh cranberry-orange-ginger relish — with a chocolate dessert. It is February, after all.
We invite family and friends to stay for a weekend of visiting, playing games, long walks in the woods — and a big turkey dinner.
This year, we hosted 26 people for Thanksgiving dinner Saturday afternoon. Dad’s longtime girlfriend made the long drive. Everyone pitches in for a beautiful meal. Our family played board games deep into Friday and Saturday nights.
Outside was so warm and bright Saturday, that people settled into the chaise lounges and porch swings to chat and laugh — just like a summertime reunion.
Reaching for Grace
In February, as I walk the goofy beagle around town, I am more preoccupied and reflective than usual — making mental lists before the big dinner, then afterward reliving all its moments.
On the morning of Feb. 1, fresh white patches covered the rooftops, ridges and fields, shining in the bright sun and blue sky. Remnants of dried cornstalks poked up through the previous day’s snowfall — about five inches, just enough for a snow day. Snow outlined the sheets of grey bark and deep green up on the ridges.
By February, I am relieved and grateful to have muddled through the January dates of my dad’s birthday and anniversary of his death. Around those days, grief can rise from the shadows and block the sun.
Then it passes. February brings relief, lots to do to prepare for a big family dinner and weekend, and a special reminder to be grateful.
How my dad would love our Thanksgiving in February weekends. He would love our boys. He would love all the food, the joking and teasing, the cheering for them at baseball and football games, our plans as we remake this old house — all of it.
To live is to know loss. It hurts like hell. In time, the sharpness of its bite dulls — though never entirely disappears.
Some believe healing from grief means that gratitude for the gift of that person fills the hole. Perhaps that’s what it means to turn grief to grace.
I get that. I’ve felt that. Sometimes it is fleeting. Other times it sticks around. I’m grateful for all my dad taught me, how he loved me and all of our good memories.
And I still miss him.
Blessed and Grateful
I wish I floated through all of February’s days, on the wisdom that seems to propel our neighbor. Now, as the month wanes, I find myself getting bogged down in the grind of household tasks. Dishes. Laundry. Rinse and repeat. Over and over. Probably just tired and ready for spring.
Yet, at any moment I may look out the window over the kitchen sink and spot the man who is always blessed and grateful — an extra, year-round reminder.
And I remember just how blessed I am by this beautiful family, that our boys and my husband are healthy and happy. That my mom and stepdad are healthy.
That we live in a gorgeous valley. That there is much good work to do, exciting new ideas, things to learn and great stories to discover.
February overflows with blessings: stunning snowy fields, enduring love, a favorite story, a delicious meal, all the laughter and conversation around the big tables that weekend, good memories — and that something so good and wonderful sprouted out of such loss.
Yes, quite grateful.