By Anne Gagliano
 |
Mike carving our first turkey, 1986. |
Ironically, a year later, I, too, learned what it was like to have heat and flies on Thanksgiving, for we were stationed in Louisiana. We felt like we were living in another country, in some strange, distant, tropical land, though technically we were still in America. Not only was the weather completely foreign, but so were the bugs! Locusts, June Bugs, crickets, and cockroaches—these were all new to us. Alligators, snakes, and eels added a strange zest to the mix as well. We even had trouble understanding the native dialect; though they spoke “English,” the accents were so thick and so varied—from deep Southern to Cajun—that we sometimes felt as if we needed an interpreter. But it didn’t matter—none of the strangeness mattered—because we were together. And we even had a new baby boy to celebrate with!
Far from home, with no instruction, I prepared my very first turkey. It was nearly perfect, even though I left the neck in; I didn’t know there were two cavities to empty. Mike’s favorite pie is cherry. My whole life I’d helped my mom make apple and cherry pies for Thanksgiving; it was one of my most cherished childhood memories. I knew I could do this–I’d seen my mom do it often enough. After several tearful attempts at crust rolling and transfer, I finally pulled from the oven the perfect cherry pie. The sauce bubbled cheerfully up through my beautiful, golden crust. Mike lit up with delight and anticipation, and my eyes gleamed with pride—what a cook I’d turned out to be! Mike sliced into the warm beauty and served himself a very large piece. I held my breath as he took his first, rapturous bite. He “hummed” and “ahhed” briefly, then his lips involuntarily puckered. He tried to hide this reaction, but I’d seen it. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Isn’t it good?”
“It’s great!” he said, as he began to gulp down his coffee.
I took a bite. My lips, too, puckered as the sour, bitter taste hit me full force. The “beauty” was inedible; I had doubled the unsweetened cherries (I got the wrong size can and didn’t realize it) without doubling the sugar. That was my first and last attempt at homemade cherry pie—I now buy them instead. Some chef!
Over the years, we’ve developed our own Thanksgiving traditions. It’s always at my house now, as I’m the only one with two ovens and the perfect set of Thanksgiving china (which I inherited from my aunt). We have a “kid table”—one at which my newly married son and his young bride will still have to sit. Our youngest son Rick will be flying home from law school in D.C. for the occasion—a new and highly anticipated aspect of the holiday, for we’ve never been apart this long before.
So much has changed since that first painful Thanksgiving spent apart 26 years ago. Our house has gotten bigger, our boys have gotten bigger, and we’ve even gotten bigger. Our once young flesh is now beginning to sag and wrinkle; our hair is thinning, our waistlines are thickening. We’ve lost loved ones along the way; my mom died two years ago the day before Thanksgiving—the day we used to bake our pies.
So much has changed, but so much has stayed the same. We still have plenty to be thankful for—a loving family, our health, and the best job in the world, firefighting. We live in a free country—the greatest country—the only one in the world that even takes a day to thank God for all His blessings. We give thanks for these things, and we give thanks for the soldiers who protect our freedoms and make Thanksgiving even possible. Many of them are, as Mike and I once were, celebrating the day separated from their loved ones; we know first-hand how heartbreaking it truly is.
And last but not least, we give thanks that we still long to be together and hate to be apart—just like we did 26 years ago.
Anne Gagliano has been married to Captain Mike Gagliano of the Seattle (WA) Fire Department for 26 years. She and her husband lecture together on building and maintaining a strong marriage.
