The year my father died, I told Stroup we had to go back to northern Illinois for Thanksgiving. I couldn?t bear the thought of my mother being alone at home or spending the day forlornly somewhere else with friends.
?Buy a turkey. We?ll be there,? I called and told her.
When I was growing up, Thanksgiving was the day our cousins came to our house and we did the cooking. It was the week we polished the sterling silver, got out my grandmother?s Haviland china, and put extra leaves in the dining room table. On Thanksgiving morning, my sister Bridget and I would make place cards, and by 11 a.m. the air would be filled with the annual aroma of turkey and dressing. For me, it was the most special day of the year.
By 1976, my brother, sister and I had grown-up lives and our own families, and so did our cousins. And for the first time, Mom didn?t have Dad.
That year, Stroup was a young pilot with Delta Air Lines, and he ended up having to work on Thanksgiving. So I flew from New Orleans with our 7-year-old twins earlier in the week, and he landed at Chicago's O?Hare Airport on Thanksgiving night, rented a car, and drove out to my mom?s.
By the time he got there, it was 8:30 p.m., and Shannon and Keegan were already asleep. But the house still smelled wonderful, and Stroup was excited about having a late Thanksgiving dinner. It was one of his favorite meals, and he hadn?t had a chance to eat all day.
He walked into the dining room in his uniform and set down his suitcase, looking hungry and hopeful. My first words to him were something like, ?I?m worried about Paladin. I don?t think he feels good.?
He called the old black Labrador?s name, and Paladin came over to him slowly, wagging his tail. Then he looked up, gave a small shudder, and fell to the floor. Stroup reached down and patted him and then rested his hand on his side, waiting to feel him breathe.
?Oh, no,? he said softly.
My mother refused to believe Paladin was gone, the way you do when you first learn someone you love has died. He was her companion, her link to my dad. They bought him the year I went off to college, not long after we said goodbye to Pepper, our old terrier. And for 13 years he had given them another dog to love.
After Dad died, Mom would take Paladin in the car with her whenever she ran errands. Everyone knew him, and at the drive-up window of the bank, they always gave him dog biscuits.
On that long-ago night, she insisted we take him to the vet ?to make sure,? even though Stroup and I were already sure. He looked at me, a look that said, ?Tell her,? but I shrugged and called our family vet.
He didn?t answer, so I got out the phone directory and called one vet after another. Finally, I reached one in the next town who heard the desperation in my voice. He agreed to meet Stroup and Mom at his office.
After they left, I went upstairs to check on Shannon and Keegan. Then I walked into my parents? bedroom and turned on the light. It looked the way it always had, with the maroon clock radio and the blue princess phone on the nightstand -- except Dad?s pile of change wasn?t on the dresser, and the sympathy card Shannon had made six months earlier was taped to the dresser mirror.
She had drawn a picture of our donkey Daisy, and underneath it she had printed, "Dear Grandma, Please put this up for Grandpa. I am sorry Grandpa had to die."
All these years later I can still picture that note and remember how cold the bedroom felt.
I walked back downstairs to heat up dinner on the stove for Stroup. I knew he?d be hungry and that he?d need plenty of energy to dig a hole in the frozen Illinois ground the next morning.
By the time he and Mom got home, she was back to her normal self, saying Paladin was old for a Lab, that he?d been slowing down, that it was good he didn?t suffer. I was glad she hadn?t been by herself when it happened. I?ve always wondered if Paladin waited for Stroup to get there.
We buried him next to the house, where hollyhocks bloomed every summer, not far from where my dad had buried Pepper 14 years earlier. I?d been mad at Dad for not letting me help him that night, or at least stand there beside him. Later, I realized it was because he didn?t want me to see him cry.
That wintry morning, Mom didn?t cry. I only saw her cry once, and that was when my brother and I broke a tiny teacup from the child?s tea set that had been her mother?s. She was the most stoic person I?ve ever known.
Before we left to come home to Louisiana, I gave her some advice: ?Don?t get another puppy, especially not a Lab,? I told her. ?A Lab would be too much for you to handle.?
I saw a certain look in her eye when we had the ?no-puppy? discussion. Not long after that, she called to say she had bought a yellow Lab puppy. She named him Treasure after ?Tierneys? Treasures,? the little antique shop she and Dad opened after he retired from his grocery store. Another dog, another link to my father.
The thing about my mom was this: She endured. After Treasure came Adam, a nippy little Sheltie, and then Beignet, the miniature poodle she got after she moved to Louisiana. She outlived them all, and then I gave her two kittens.
I guess I?ve been thinking about my parents and Paladin because Stroup and I lost several people dear to us this year -- and my little dog Harry, too. For me, Thanksgiving is a time for remembering: old recipes, family traditions, and loved ones no longer at the table.
As long as we remember them, they?ll always be with us.?
Sheila Stroup: sstroup@timespicayune.com or 985.898.4831.
Source: http://www.nola.com/holidays/index.ssf/2012/11/thanksgiving_memories.html
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