What my grandfather taught me at Thanksgiving

It’s a time to be grateful for what we have and remember how easily it can slip away, Julie Anne Pattee says.

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant a trip to the Eastern Townships, where my grandparents had a summer place near Magog. It was a big house that sat at the end of a long winding road, a beautiful place surrounded by rose gardens and vast fields.

Its stone fireplace had been built from the rubble of my grandfather’s family home in Hawkesbury, Ont. Its furniture and paintings had been shipped from my grandmother’s family home in New Canaan, Conn. There was a grandfather clock that rebel soldiers had hidden in during the American Revolution in the hallway, and a solid old desk that I was told had a connection to Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain).

My grandparents’ country house creaked so heavily with the weight of our history that it felt like it would be there forever. But fortunes can change quickly. The house and all its contents are just memories now, as are my grandparents.

My best memories aren’t of the house itself, though, but of the hikes my grandfather would take us on every year. We’d pass by the old sugar shack and hop over wooden fences, wearing our rubber boots and warm woollen sweaters, as we made our way into the bush, squinting in the sunlight at the bright orange, yellow and red maple leaves.

The conversation would die off after a bit. All we could hear was the steady rhythm of dry leaves crunching beneath our feet and the snap of twigs cracking like dry bones. There would be the sounds of shotguns in the distance from time to time, too. I remember finding it strange that no one thought to suspend hunting season over Thanksgiving weekend, because it seemed to me that a lot of families were at risk of being mistaken for deer.

About midway through the hike, it always started to feel as if the wind had ripped holes in my sweater. My legs would start to ache and my hands and cheeks would turn icy cold and apple red. But it felt good to tough it out, because it impressed my grandfather so much.

The long, exhausting hike was a preamble to Thanksgiving dinner, just like taking extensive tours in and out of rooms and up and down staircases was a prerequisite to opening presents on Christmas morning.

My grandfather came of age during the Depression. He grew up wealthy, lost everything, and then built himself back up again. Because of this, he thought it was important to suffer for the things you wanted. He understood that it was the only way you could ever feel truly grateful for what you had.

Like many children today, my son has grown up without many of the privileges I experienced growing up. The fact that I haven’t been able to give him all the things I had often makes me feel guilty. When I feel like this, I try to remember hiking through the woods with my grandfather on Thanksgiving weekend: so many of life’s riches are not material.

We celebrate Thanksgiving in order to remind ourselves to be grateful for what we have in the moment. In my grandparents’ day and in their grandparents’ day, people worked hard during the harvest season. Their suffering was short lived, but they knew their good fortunes would be, too. The long cold winter was just around the corner. This was the time of year to be thankful for temporary blessings.

There is a tendency to think of the present moment as a solid old house that creaks under the heavy weight of history. We can hear it splintering, but we think things will never really change. The only constant in life and in history, though, is that they always do.