COLUMN: A Thanksgiving family album

From Lisa Levenson's, "First Person," Fall '96 By 10 a.m., my grandmother had dumped a dozen beaten eggs into the two casserole dishes of challah cubes that would become stuffing, and my aunt had brought the thawing turkey in from the garage. My cousin and her boyfriend wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, looking for coffee, while my mom and I were draining our first cups, having been up since 4 a.m. to catch the first flight to Detroit. My uncle was picking up my great-aunt, who feared she was already missing some key parts of the Thanksgiving dinner preparation -- but my grandmother, her sister, had everything under control. It had been 14 years since so many members of my family -- 13, to be exact, all on my father's side -- had gathered together to ask the Lord's blessing, as the hymn goes, and to enjoy Thanksgiving's officially-sanctioned overeating. The last time, the top of my head barely reached the first wooden slat on the back of my aunt's dining room chairs. Now, that role was occupied by my cousin's fiancee's son, age 7. And I was just another adult, dishing out cranberries and yams and green beans as everyone's plates made their way around the table. There's something both sobering and hopeful about spending the holidays with family, looking into the past and wondering what the future will bring, especially with New Year's a scant month away. My spirits were depressed by snapshots spread throughout my aunt and uncle's house, of my father and his father, both of whom have passed away. But they were simultaneously buoyed by my 85-year-old grandmother's absolute command of everything going on in the kitchen, and her expert direction of everyone from her 80-year-old sister to her daughter (my aunt) to her great-niece, who was charged with toasting the stuffing bread to exact specifications. It would be hard not to think of family on a holiday like Thanksgiving, but it's even harder if your aunt and uncle, like mine, have adorned practically every inch of wall space in their home with family-related items. Most are photos: black-and-whites of my grandmother and grandfather bringing my dad and aunt home from the hospital; faded color prints of my older cousins as teen-agers, with his first car or her swimming medals or on vacation with me at age 3, when I sported an Afro; and tiny, sepia-toned shots of my grandmother and great-aunt as young girls, taking horseback riding lessons. My aunt knows the story behind each framed memory, and it's eerie to walk through the house, now that both my cousins have moved out and their bedrooms have been converted to office or guest room space. I still remember Mark's waterbed and pet piranha, strange and exotic when I was 10, and Ruth's trophy shelves, threatening to topple under the weight of marble and engraved gold-plate. But it's not just the photos, the faces, many years younger, that conjure up the family feeling. My uncle's father painted, mostly abstract modern art, and he stitched elegant needlepoint pillow covers in the same bright, geometric designs, incorporating family names into one-of-a-kind creations. He, like my uncle and my dad, was an amateur photographer, and many of the snapshots of wildflowers and birds hanging amidst the family faces bear his initials in the lower right-hand corner. Everyone knows pictures only come to life in Disney movies and old episodes of Scooby Doo. But when we sat down to dinner, in full view of those smiling faces, no one brought soda cans -- or jars of any other food item, for that matter -- to the table. My grandfather wouldn't stand for such indignities, and though he's been gone almost four years, butter was served last Thursday from its proper dish and water went into a pitcher before it passed the goblet rims. Just another family tradition, I'm told. Miraculously, we made it through the meal without a screaming match stemming from differing political or religious views, slightly burnt stuffing or my post-graduation plans. My young soon-to-be cousin asked for three helpings of pie (pumpkin and apple), finished them all -- and didn't throw up. The family met my boyfriend, if only briefly, and not only liked him, but also didn't excessively embarrass either of us. I have no idea where I'll be next Thanksgiving, and I'm already dreading the day when the big dinner becomes my responsibility, as my meat-cooking skills are limited to chicken stir-fry. Still, for two days last week, I had an excuse to ignore pending deadlines and the stress of schoolwork and job applications, to focus on the family I (and most college students) too often take for granted. That's something to give thanks for, indeed.