Every Thanksgiving holiday, media reports of crowded airports and busy highways consume the airwaves. Travelers are warned to arrive early, use caution and spend extra time moving from place to place.

It often reminds me of the Willie Nelson song, On the Road again.  His idea of going places “I’ve never been and seeing things that I have never seen” may differ for the approximately 46.9 million Americans who, according to AAA Travel, will train, plane or drive more than 50 miles from home during the 2015 Thanksgiving break. Regardless, it’s a holiday where Americans routinely brave the elements and the delays to be with family and friends for a feast of turkey, stuffing, potatoes (baked, mashed, or sweet), cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and, in more modern times, televised NFL “football” games.

Turkey napkins

In 2009, History.com published an account of the first Thanksgiving in the United States. The feast took place in 1621 when the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians shared a special meal to celebrate the end of the harvest. There is no real evidence the event occurred, and some historians argue that Virginia’s Berkeley Plantation celebrated the first Thanksgiving in 1619. However, historians concur the colonists did give thanks for a healthy yield of corn and squash, and that the Native Americans and Pilgrims shared a feast at some point in the fall.

Colonist and author Edward Winslow wrote in 1621 of this shared meal:

“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed upon our governor, and upon the captain, and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

The Pilgrims may not have chowed down on turkey in 1621 but they served up a hearty sampling of meat, complete with friendship, peace and togetherness. The colonies (and later, states) celebrated “Thanksgiving” over the years in varying degrees, and often at different times of the year.

In 1863, President Abraham Lincoln finally succumbed to the pleas of Sarah Josepha Hale, a feminist and author of the Nursery Rhyme, Mary Had a Little Lamb, who fought the government for 20-30 years to establish Thanksgiving as a national holiday.  Alas, a man can only take a woman’s complaining for so long, and Lincoln named the final Thursday in November to be celebrated as Thanksgiving Day. In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, our notable New Deal architect, moved up the holiday by one week to entice shoppers during the Great Depression to hit the stores one week earlier. Today, Thanksgiving is celebrated the fourth Thursday of November.

Thanksgiving Day is my favorite holiday of the year… at least until someone recognizes December 16, my birthday, as a national day of celebration. There is more focus on friends and family–and less pressure on purchasing gifts. While there are the stresses of cooking (I would not know), it’s a day of eating, talking, watching TV, sitting by a fire, exercising, running the Turkey Trot, and relaxing.  It is not a religious day, but one where we can be proud of our shared history.

Joyce’s brunch in Puerto Vallarta, Thanksgiving

Until I was 13 or so, my family enjoyed Thanksgiving with my Godparents and their two sons. They would visit us in Chicago (or Ohio, where we lived when I was younger) one year and we would travel to Kansas City, Missouri the next year. My parents, brother and I piled in the car on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving known as the busiest travel day of the year and hit I-70 from Akron, Ohio to KC and later I-55 from Chicago through St. Louis (the Arch) or I-80 from Chicago through Des Moines (the corn). The drive always seemed long and arduous, but once we arrived at my Godparents’, the festivities began, lasting until we had to return home on Sunday, when tears–mostly mine–flowed freely.

I loved visiting Kansas City for Thanksgiving. It was so much fun seeing my Godparents and trying like heck to win the attention of their sons, who I adored. As the only girl, I begged for the boys to include me but I often lost out to my brother, the entertainer. He was only 3-years-old and so certainly cuter than I.  We would watch television with the younger son and sometimes spied on the older. We became fans of the Kansas City Royals and the University of Kansas, because otherwise we surely would be outsiders (my brother would later attend KU).  I fought for years to be included in the annual Thanksgiving football game in the front yard.  On our very last visit to Kansas City for Thanksgiving, the boys and dads granted me immunity from the sidelines.  A few plays into the game, I fell and cried–and that was the end of that tradition. Turns out, I objected to playing on the cement all along.

My family always traveled long distances to be together. We loaded our cars and stood in the cold to watch the beautiful display of Christmas color take over the Plaza, the downtown shopping area in Chicago. We ate BBQ food, cooked meals, shopped the Plaza and shared our version of a Thanksgiving feast, including all the fixings and a pre-dinner blessing.

As we all grew older–kids, parents and grandparents alike–our Thanksgiving Day shifted from Kansas City to Michigan. Now we piled in the car and drove from Chicago to Flint to spend time with my grandparents on my dad’s side. It was important to my dad and special for my brother and me to be with our grandparents and aunts. On Thanksgiving Day, my dad, brother and I attended the Detroit Lions football game (I don’t think they won much back then either), and my grandmother Geraldine would cook up a feast with my dad’s favorite stuffing.

To this day, my dad nudges my mother to get it closer to “Geraldine’s recipe.” My mother answers with, “Michael, her stuffing was Stove Top.  Get over it.”

When I went away to Michigan State University, I welcomed spending Thanksgiving dinners at home in Chicago. I departed early after Wednesday classes and drove the reverse commute of my late teenage years down I-94 from East Lansing to Chicago. My mother, never one to prepare last minute, set the dining room table in advance of my arrival. My family greeted me joyfully.  Home is always welcoming.  Together, we cheered for our favorite football team, lounged in front of a blazing fire with bloated stomachs and settled in for our 100th viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol.

In more recent years, I’ve spent Thanksgiving holidays in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico with my parents, celebrating with an early morning tennis match, margaritas and sunshine. Wherever I am, I insist on embracing the symbolism of the day. I spent 2004’s holiday in the Blue Mountains of Sydney, Australia, overeating; 2012, at the Taj Mahal with my friend Jill, feeling native; and last year, alone in Xi’an, China, doing what Americans do best: hitting the stores for Thanksgiving Day sales. These holidays were special, too–just different.

Loving the Taj

This year, I am observing the fall harvest in Puerto Vallarta with my parents and aunt (mom’s sister). It’s not a traditional Thanksgiving per se, but it has all the trimmings of a perfect holiday.

Today, my dad, aunt and I exercised early before devouring a carefully planned Thanksgiving brunch prepared by my mom, who whipped up her special French Toast recipe, along with bacon and eggs. Suitably stuffed, with the Hallmark channel calling, we overindulged on Christmas classics and fairytale endings all afternoon. Tonight, we will gobble up turkey and all the fixings at Daiquiri Dicks Restaurant with the other traveling Americans.

Thanksgiving with my parents and Aunt Jeanne

While it’s certainly too hot to build a fire in the fireplace, I am thankful for my family and friends, near and far. I am thankful for the special memories this day has created and I look forward to more celebrations in the years to come.

Save the diet for next week.  I surely will.

Turkey time at Daiquiri Dicks Puerto Vallarta

To the Traveling Americans

On the Road Again by Willie Nelson

“On the road again –
Just can’t wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.
On the road again

Goin’ places that I’ve never been.
Seein’ things that I may never see again

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.
On the road again –
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We’re the best of friends.
Insisting that the world keep turning our way

And our way
is on the road again.
Just can’t wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.
On the road again

Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We’re the best of friends

Insisting that the world keep turning our way

And our way
is on the road again.
Just can’t wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends

And I can’t wait to get on the road again.
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”