We are Thanksgiving purists who won't hang a wreath or string a light until the day of thanks has passed. Most years, there's snow and it's nearly impossible to pound stakes into the frozen ground—stakes that keep the pre-lit reindeer from toppling over.
     This year was different. Days after Thanksgiving, the temperature was still in the 50s, and we had no snow. My hubby was outdoors in a light jacket and baseball cap. Inside, I was warm and toasty, too, putting away the last vestiges of our holiday celebration.
     In the days leading up to Turkey Day, I had cleaned in a frenzy. The first time in nearly 20 years I would host Thanksgiving, I wanted it to be perfect. Just like my mother had. I vacuumed and dusted, polished silverware, and ironed the table cloth. My mind had been so full of what to do next, I never gave a thought to the heirlooms and gifts from my mother that would soon dress my table.
     Days after the feast, as my husband decorated outside, I packed away dishes that had been my mothers, and a serving spoon engraved with my grandparents' wedding date. As I carefully wrapped the cut glass nut dish that always adorned my mother's table, I remembered how my siblings and I had used the little silver spoon to get past the peanuts and Brazil nuts, going straight for the cashews.
     Mom always kept us kids out of her hair (and away from the cashews) by putting us to work. The little kids ran dust cloths across already gleaming end tables in the living room. Someone (my brother?) filled the condiment dish with black and green olives and tiny pickles. My sister and I dried serving pieces (including that nut dish), polished silver, and rubbed water spots from glasses. Once our work was done, we were all sent upstairs to change into our good clothes. Dad greeted our company in a suit and tie and Mom wore high heels and a pretty apron over her dress.
     The five of us kids ate dinner with our cousins at a table Dad had set up in the sun room. We giggled and carried on, out of sight of the grown ups. When the noise reached a certain level, Dad hollered at us to, "Keep it down in there."
     After dinner, everyone cleared the tables and helped put food away. Mom insisted on washing the china herself. One by one, she placed the pieces of good silverware in a tub to soak. She wanted to make sure each place setting was accounted for. Not because one of our relatives would pocket anything, but for fear a fork or knife might have landed in the giant garbage bag or fallen into the garbage disposal.
     You see, we were in a hurry get the work done because there would be no dessert until the dishes were washed and the leftovers were in the refrigerator. For the grown-ups, dessert was pie ala mode. At the kids' table, it was cookies from the bakery on 50th Street. Sugared cookies shaped like turkeys. Cut-out cookies my own children looked forward to many years later. And my husband picked up from that same bakery for our grandchildren's after-dinner treat this year.
     Ah, tradition. The reason I filled the compartments of the condiment dish with green and black olives even though no one in my family eats them. Why the nut basket held the biggest cashews I could find. Why we hang no Christmas light before its time.