Tag Archives: tradition

“Once More to the Lake”

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View from my chair in the corner of the porch (D. Linda Garcia)

View from my chair in the corner of the porch (D. Linda Garcia)

One can never forget E.B White’s essay “Once More to the Lake,” written for The New Yorker” in 1929. In this essay, White describes in a most eloquent, and detailed fashion, the pleasures he experienced as a child, making an annual retreat with his father to a lake in the woods of Maine. Equally compelling is his account of bringing his own son to this special place. As he notes, the joyfulness of the place was enhanced with each new iteration, as he relives his own childhood experiences through the eyes and delights of his son.

I know the feeling well.  As I described in my earliest blogs, I have had the good fortune of inheriting a cottage at Lake Hawthorne, situated in 450 acres of woods, in Northern New Jersey.  It has been in my family now for five generations, so I have had a chance to witness a number of traditions being reenacted and reinforced over time.  With each new crop of children I, too, was able to fondly reminisce and relive some powerful experiences not only with respect to my own childhood but also that of my son.

It was, therefore, with great anticipation that I set out for the New Jersey Highlands on the Thursday before the Fourth of July. Never mind the two and a half days of preparation–cleaning, laundry, planting the few pots of daisies that had yet to be put in the ground. Never mind the relentless traffic along the way–the endless New Jersey Turnpike, with police cars stationed behind every turn, the roaring trucks racing along Route 287, and the crawling cascade of cars on Route 80, all leaving the city, seeking solace, and heading for destinations such as mine.  As I neared the turnoff on Route 517 in Sparta, I could once again smell the flowers–so to speak. So could my dog Sparky, who extended his nose as far as he could out the car window, and then sniffed and sniffed and sniffed.

Arrival (D. Linda Garcia)

Arrival (D. Linda Garcia)


 Although I was as eager as Sparky to get to the Lake, we had to slow down. The last leg of the trip is a dirt road, and the heavy rains of the previous weeks had left a number of washboards in its stead. Negotiating the hills on the winding road around the lake we finally arrived. Out jumped Sparky, and I soon followed, my books, computer, and luggage in tow.

We were hardly there more than an hour, when my grandson Ben arrived full of pressing news. “Remember,” he said, “when my Dad and Uncle Bret had a fake marriage with their cousins Jenny and Tara. Well, tomorrow we are going to keep up the tradition; I am marrying Olivia (Jenny’s daughter and his third cousin), and Sophie (my grand daughter) is going to marry Brody (her godmother’s son).” It was all settled: they had been planning the event for a week.

The next day, in between claps of thunder and streaks of lightning, the wedding took place–best men, maids of honor, flowers and all. My husband Brock and I supplied the cakes–one chocolate, one vanilla. The children were serious, but a bit tenuous–as well they should have been. When asked if he took his Cousin Olivia for his wife, Ben replied: “Well sort of.” In response, Olivia replied, “Well kinda.”

Mock Wedding--Second Time Around (D. Linda Garcia)

Mock Wedding--Second Time Around (D. Linda Garcia)

You can imagine why sometimes when I am at the lake, I am–like E.B. White–not sure whether I am coming or going. At times like these,  I like to remember that my son Stephen did not ever marry his cousin Jenny.  However, he  did marry his lake playmate Haley–the girl next door.  

On Technorati: E. B. White, friendship, Lake Hawthorne, Maine, Once More to the Lake, tradition, weddings

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Over the River and Through the Woods

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Do you remember this song? I do. We sang it every year in my grammar school assemblies. It encapsulates all that I love, and remember, about Thanksgiving. In fact, my memories of Thanksgivings are not so different from the dinner scene portrayed by Dylan Thomas in his story, A Child’s Christmas in Whales, especially as it is narrated by Aubrey Davis at the annual Celtic Christmas Concert.

Perusing google to gather some background about the holiday, I was disturbed to find that not everyone feels as I do. In fact, some posts seem to have deliberately set out to debunk–one by one–all of the stories that, over the years, have come to constitute the lore of Thanksgiving. Surely, facts are important. But history–as Fernand Braudel might be the first to point out–is a living, on-going process.

the original Thanksgiving Story might best be conceived as a well fertilized seed kernel that has evolved and by hybridized over time in the course of our history.

Accordingly , the original Thanksgiving Story might best be conceived as a well fertilized seed kernel that has evolved and been hybridized over time throughout the course of our history–a point that sociologist, Edward Shils, has emphasized in his book Tradition. From this perspective, we can understand how, today, the Thanksgiving holiday has become a truly American legend, incorporating and embracing many diverse groups which–each in their own ways, and according to their own traditions–celebrate the essence of the tale–thankfulness, generosity, family, openness, and kindness towards others.

Beginning on Wednesday, my husband and I began to reenact our own Thanksgiving traditions. I had taken the day off so as to have time to clean the house, do baking, polish silverware, and cut and prepare a wonderful assortment of root vegetables in advance of the big day.

Fall Rock Creek Park (courtesy imortins photography)

Fall Rock Creek Park (courtesy imortins photography)

Next morning, we arose early, giving us time to carry out our own annual rituals. To begin, we reread the section on cooking poultry in our well-worn, and seasoned, cookbook The Joy of Cooking, just to be sure that we avoided the many pitfalls my mother had so emphatically warned me about in my youth, as I helped her prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Then, with the turkey stuffed, and well wedged into the oven, we set out, with our dog Sparky, for our traditional hike in Rock Creek Park. The sun was out, the air was crisp, and everyone we met along the way was full of smiles, greeting us with “Have a nice Thanksgiving!”. We arrived back home, just in time to lay the table, put out the ordeurves, call our absent family members, and have a glass of wine before the guests arrived. They were a diverse and enthusiastic group, and together we made merry. Even Sparky joined in the fun.
Thanksgiving Table (courtesy of Judie Fouchaux)

Thanksgiving Table (courtesy of Judie Fouchaux)

Of course, not all Thanksgivings are without their mishaps. Most memorable to me was the year that my in-laws and their relatives joined in the festivities. The plates were laid, the food was on the table, and we were about to say thanks when the structure supporting the table came out of place. It was only the strong knees and will of our guests that kept my grandmother’s Limoges china–not to mention the turkey dinner–from falling on the floor. Then again I shouldn’t forget the year I put the turnip skins down the garbage disposal, only to have them erupt some hours later, together with–to my horror–a lot of other extraneous materials.

This year, on Thanksgiving, I believe that we have something to be especially grateful for–the election of Barack Obama for President. In fact, just as in the true meaning of Thanksgiving, doesn’t Obama epitomize, and in many of the same ways, the very best of America? As they say at the end of services in the Episcopalian Church, “Thanks be to God!.”

On Technorati: Aubrey Davis, Celtic Christmas Concert, Dylan Thomas, lore, myth, Obama, Thanksgiving, tradition

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