The sound of steel sharpening into razor blades is one of the most memorable Thanksgiving memories.
My late father, David D. Hanneman, always sat at the head of his carved wooden dining room table on Thanksgiving. He was a seat of honor and authority.
It was also the place where, on a Thursday every November, a golden brown turkey would come ashore to separate the meat from the bone, much to the delight of all. None of this happened until I put a knife to the honing rod to prove it was ready for the job ahead.
I described a typical Hanneman Thanksgiving in my 2010 book, The Journey Home. This book details my father's final six-month battle with cancer.
Schwartin! Schwartin! The sound of the chisel sliding across the sharpening steel was a sure sign that dinner was almost ready. This magnificent bird, baked for six hours in the oven to a golden brown color, was then placed on a platter to “settle” for a few minutes before the host set out to carve it for the waiting public.
The memory of my father sitting in his proper place at last Thanksgiving is seared into my mind. The 2005 photo at the top of this article perfectly captures that memory. The family around the table, the smiling father carving the bird, all waiting for words of blessing.
Every time I think about that day, and the decades before that day, I like to linger there for a moment. I listen to the bustle at the table, the eager chatter, I try to see the smiles, and sometimes I even shed a tear.
We then gathered in the family room to watch the Green Bay Packers and Detroit Lions game. I might doze off on the couch until my three kids arrive. After that, there were no more turkey naps.
Hanneman Thanksgiving in Wisconsin, circa 1970. Mother Mary Hanneman has polka dots, grandparents Karl Hanneman and Ruby Hanneman are on the left, and the author has red hair.
Afterwards, I went back to the kitchen and made my mom's delicious pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.
Such simplicity creates beautiful memories.
When I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant turkey, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole with almond slices, jellied cranberry sauce, butter rolls, and next to the bird, my “glass” of wine to go with my mom's cooking. It meant getting it. Distinctive dressing. You can almost taste it.
This Thanksgiving, I will raise a glass of wine and toast to the many family and friends at that table. Most of them went to treat themselves: grandparents, parents, family friends. But each of them left something behind. It's something that I can cherish anew just by thinking about it.
Memories of Thanksgiving. I am very grateful to them.
My memories are but a pale reflection of another feast we all share, where the day never ends, the food is plentiful, and everyone's heart is full because they will never leave again. .
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