Hey, Dad. It’s been 115 days since you died. Nearly four months now.
Today was the first major holiday since you passed. Thanksgiving was one of your favorites, a distant second to Christmas. In the weeks leading up to today, I wondered what it would be like.
It was, well, weird. I began the day remembering the promise I made to you about staying healthy. Anticipating the upcoming food coma, I lifted weights for more than an hour this morning.
I didn’t think much about Thanksgiving without you until Shana stopped me in the kitchen. “How are you, honey?”
It’s the only time today I came close to tears. It was a little like the scene in “Lonesome Dove” when Call finishes burying Gus and has the telling look of “he’s really gone” on his face.
A few hours later, after dropping Rory off at the in-laws, I headed to Overbrook for our Thanksgiving feast, arriving a little before noon. As is the tradition in millions of homes, football was on the TV when I arrived. That made me think of the dozens of games we’ve watched on this holiday.
Lunch, as always, was great. Eight hours later, I’m still paying for that other tradition: gorging. We had all your favorites: Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, cheese cake and much, much more.
As we came to the table, I stared at the chair at the end where you sat for years. A little sadness began to creep in as I sat down in the chair I have for years to the right of you. Draven, an incredible young man, stood up and said, “You should sit here.” He had been sitting in your chair. We didn’t talk about it, but I know he did it to pass the torch.
I also thought about one of the key elements you were in charge of on Thanksgiving and Christmas: the gravy. Nobody made gravy like yours. It was a staple for decades. It made me think of the high school days after you and mom divorced. We’d spend weekends with you and wake up Sunday morning to biscuits and gravy, bacon and potatoes.
Though I don’t have as many memories of Thanksgiving as Christmas, I thought about several through the years. There were several get-togethers with Uncle Wayne, Aunt Donna and cousins Dale and Lee.
Until we were in college, we went hunting virtually every Thanksgiving morning while Mom cooked. I don’t remember shooting anything, but I do recall “road hunting,” which wasn’t legal, of course.
One Thanksgiving I’m always going to remember is my last in college. It was 1998, and I drove from Burlingame, where I was barely scrapping by on part-time jobs, scholarships and a college loan, to Warsaw, Missouri, to spend the holiday with you.
It was just you and me that year, and there was a little sadness that we weren’t all together. It wasn’t a gigantic feast, but we still had turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy and other staples. We talked for hours, walked your property and watched football. As much as I was struggling then, it was a nice break.
I also remember Thanksgiving when I moved from Virginia to Tulsa. At 65 years old, you were running up and down the large yard on Dan’s property during a football game that also became a tradition for several years. On that cold grass, there were three generations of Webbs tackling, stiff-arming and talking trash.
For years after the food and football, you’d drive one mile to the south, take a nap and wake up to eat another piece of pie while playing poker. Today, I drove two miles to the east to visit you at the cemetery.
It still doesn’t seem real that you’re gone. As long as our family continues traditions like today, you never really will be.
Love and miss you, old man.