A Quiet Thanksgiving

 As I headed out on a morning bike ride today, the roads weren't deserted, but they were quiet. The patches of ice that had formed overnight had melted as the sun angled in and nudged the temperature into the mid 30s (F).

The lack of traffic and the silent houses made me think that the majority of people went away for the holiday, or were sleeping late. The sense of abandonment pulled up one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories.

In November, 1975, I was at the University of Florida. My family was in Cheboygan, Michigan. That's almost but not quite where the tip of the middle finger would be if lower Michigan was wearing a glove instead of a mitten. It was more than 1,300 highway miles to drive there. The family had already expended a lot of travel budget at the end of the summer to get everyone to my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party. So we all agreed that it made sense for me to stay on campus for the Thanksgiving weekend.

The scene on Wednesday looked like evacuation ahead of an invasion. Students stuffed luggage into their cars, hurrying from the dormitory exits and filling the street as they loaded up. It was a bit more festive than a real evacuation, but a tension hung over it as well. The frenzy peaked in the early afternoon and quickly dwindled until no one was left. Dust swirled in a gust of wind. Northern Florida doesn't have seasons the way New England does, but it still looked bleak.

I went outside to survey the empty campus. I lived in the oldest dorm complex, considered a bit slummy by the denizens of the more modern blocks and towers. The architecture was classic brick collegiate, with peaked roofs. Most of the sections were vertical, four stories tall, rather than long horizontal hallways. I wandered  through empty courtyards.

There were others left behind. We found each other and gathered to make turkey pizza on the day itself. I don't remember what I ate or where on the other days. I just remember that feeling of being outside of life, but fully alive. For those few days, we were the masters of the campus.

On Sunday, everyone else came pouring back.

In other college years I went with friends to their family gatherings. It didn't feel weird to me back then, but it certainly does now. I guess Thanksgiving family weirdness has cranked up a lot during this century, particularly since 2016, even among the relatives, let alone adding a lone weirdo. I'm just as happy to spend a quiet day. I have to get ready for an intense few weeks coming up, which involves gathering equipment and preparing.

In a wider sense, the holiday itself seems like an unquestioned habit: gotta gather for a festive meal with someone, anyone. Family, friends, a community group. It's nice, I guess, for anyone who needs to merge gratitude for life's blessings with a concentrated shot of social contact. But I sense that it seems like an obligation to some of the participants. It might serve as part of the glue that holds a group together, or it might just serve as little rocks that they have to wear in their socks for this one designated weekend a year.