Seventy Years of Thanksgivings

I am eighty-three years old, and I have hosted Thanksgiving for fifty-one of them.

This year, my grandson insisted on hosting instead. I was worried. He is twenty-eight and I wasn't sure he knew how to roast a turkey.

He did not, it turns out. He called me four times that morning. But when I walked into his little apartment, everything smelled right. He had used my stuffing recipe. He had my mother's gravy boat on the table, the one I gave him last Christmas.

There were nineteen of us, crowded around two tables pushed together. Four generations. My great-grandson sat on my lap and fed me a green bean.

When it was time to say what we were grateful for, my grandson raised his glass and said, "For Grandma, who taught us all how to do this." Everyone clapped.

I didn't cook a thing this year. It was the best Thanksgiving I've ever had.