"Did I tell you Darlene is definitely coming?"
"What's that make it, 18 people now?" I tried to remember.
"And she's bringing her brother."
"Nineteen! Where'll they all sit?"
That was how Thanksgiving happened for us this year. People kept saying "yes" to our invitation. By the Monday before-hand we were up to twenty-one. I was happy to have so many friends and family coming to join us for the holiday, but I was also a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of orchestrating such a meal, even if it was pot-luck.
It all began when Nancy and I decided to invite our mothers and a few local friends for what would be our first Thanksgiving at home since we met four years ago, and the first holiday in our new home. We have been the guests at various friends' holiday pot-luck celebrations; now it was our turn to host. But holiday plans for us seem to not unfold smoothly.
Last year, my mother's Thanksgiving was spent in the hospital recovering from surgery for lung cancer. This year, she and my brother were able to travel out here for the week, but now Nancy's mother was the one in the hospital for the holiday, following her own cancer diagnosis. For a second year in a row, the holidays for us have become a time to remember mortality.
Death is one of those inevitable human experiences that we so frequently elect to hide from. Linguistically, we betray our reticence to face death through the euphemisms we create for dying: passed away, gone, lost, moved on, or pushin' up the daisies. Socially, we hide death away in hospitals and nursing homes, partly because we are uncomfortable with all those unknown things associated with death. Ironically, they are so unknown and worrisome because we hide them away.
Physically, the handling of the dead is relegated to a mysterious few, the morticians, a long suffering minority. When was the last time, after all, that you saw a sit-com based on the crazy life of two young morticians? (Henry Winkler and Michael Keaton did try it once, but with limited success.) My cousin's girlfriend is a mortician. There is usually an abrupt and awkward pause in the conversation when this attractive and energetic woman mentions her profession.
We deny death, we pretend it couldn't happen to us, we fear those who are deathly ill, we are embarrassed to speak of it. We are even unwilling to recognize the important roll death plays in our politics, preferring to call our military killing apparatus the "Defense" department, and to ignore, as best we can, the murderous policies supported by or engaged in by our countless and unaccountable secret government branches, only the most visible of which is the CIA. Death is a tool which supports our lifestyle, yet good taste allows us to speak little of it.
My mother's illness last year, and Nancy's mother's this, have combined with the birth of our daughter last Spring to encourage a lot of discussion in our home of the beginning and end of life. There is much room in these conversations for platitudes about the great theater of life, the exquisiteness of a life well lived, carpe dium, and so forth. When it comes down to the practicalities of day to day life, however, I find myself remarking on how dependent and interdependent, emotionally and physically, we all are, at various stages of our lives, within and upon our families, friends, and society. We all need each other more than I usually remember.
I also am coming to realize how poor our culture is at providing for the aged. As the baby boomers age, and, hopefully, demands for humane and holistic approaches to old age and death increase, perhaps we will find some more creative ways to facilitate a dignified life for the elders of our communities. Currently, too many old folks find themselves alone and lonely in their old age.
One friend in her sixties was excited about the prospect of joining a co-housing community in Vermont. Co-housing, which originated in Northern Europe, attempts, it seems, to synthesize the best of the commune with a recognition that most people are unwilling to give up the privacy they are used to. In a co-housing community, each person or family has their own home, but there is also shared space, usually including a dinning area, and some shared responsibilities, often for occasional food preparation. Each co-housing group makes up its own rules.
Co-housing seems like an obvious way to bring diverse people together to support and lookout for each other. It is the kind of thing we should use some of those federal funds that Clinton & Co. are redirecting back towards the military following this most recent election. (What ever happened to that "Peace Dividend" anyway?) Whether for lack of federal support or other reasons, this particular Vermont co-housing group has unfortunately dissolved.
Our Thanksgiving meal came off fairly well, though we ran out of cranberry sauce uncomfortably early. The turnout, though frightening, was gratifying. Nancy's mother's absence may have made all those present seem just a little more valuable. Looking around the noisy room I realized that it could be some of these people who will support and be supported by Nancy and I when we are all old. At least a few of these assembled friends have talked about co-housing from time to time. Maybe these big pot-luck meals are simply practice for old age, teaching us to work together and be flexible. Heck, we can always squeeze in one or two more.
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