Thanksgiving

(Erma Bombeck)

This is the day of families.
The member who smokes the big black cigars that stink up the entire house for three months.
The kid who doesn't even say hello, but start pounding on the piano with their fists until conversation is no longer possible.
The couple who always pull up in a brand-new car when you know they have $2 in their pockets and are afraid to answer their own phone.
The dominant in-law who arrives just when you sit down to eat and leaves right after dessert is served.
The one who works like a field hand from the moment she arrives until after the last dish is put away.
The uncle who teases the dog.
The one who never forgets to say grace.
The kid who refuses to eat in the kitchen with the other children and ends up sitting on Mama's lap at the table.
What has brought all of them together? Does anyone remember anymore?
When you think of it, what is "family"? A psychological study that got out of hand? A genetic blind date? A group of people related by bad debts? The results of a steering committee that didn't meet regularly?
Actually, they're mirrors of every facet of your life. They know you better than anyone in the world and are willing to overlook and forget. They've seen you at your best and your worst. Often, they're a colossal bore. They've told the same stories a hundred times, but sometimes the familiarity is like an old bathrobe...too old to brag about in public, but too good to discard yet.
Like it or not, you're bound to them by your history.
I think about families a lot at Thanksgiving...even more than at Christmas. Maybe it's because Thanksgiving offers no incentive for being together except that elusive, mysterious tie that binds us together.
All I know is...I would kill to see my grandfather smoking those stinking cigars, my uncle teasing that poor dog, my Mom bustling around the kitchen helping Grandma, and me banging that piano with my fists...just one more time.