THANKSGIVING VIGIL Chapter 1 The gray, overcast Ann Arbor sky sheds its first snowfall of the year. I watch the flakes from outside my second-floor office window at RedMitten Greetings. It is the end of my day. It is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The cobweb on an exterior windowsill holds steady despite the cold updraft. The bank sign across Main Street alternates between â€œ6:11 p.m.â€ and â€œ29Â°.â€ More than time and temperature, these two points of data tell me â€œput on jacketâ€ and â€œmeet friends for dinner.â€ Still, I sit and wait, lingering in the moments that are mine, free from the entanglements of others, alone in the last of my own thoughts. I am on the precipice of what has become an annual trialâ€”several long weeks that will test my character and prove my endurance. It would make me feel noble and masculine to tell you the challenges ahead involve physical speed or strength, but no, the days ahead will be a test of memory, fortitude, and tolerance. Each Thanksgiving marks the start of a holiday season, which for me does not end until January 10, my birthday. I have long accommodated the separate parent visits, the making of compromises, the assimilation with new marriages, the new family traditions. When I live â€œmy own lifeâ€ and have a family, friends, and rituals of my own, I hope to leave this tough season behind me. The Internet tells me that there are thirty-five types of snowflakes. Some are complex, others are simple, and yet no two are ever alike. We can grow them in a lab. They occur in nature. Alone, a snowflake can be amazing and wonderful. Iâ€™ve found that there are at least that many types of people. Some are complex, others are simple, and yet no two are ever alike. We can grow them in test tubes. A person can be amazing and wonderful. However, I find that most will be big flakes during this, the coldest of seasons. â€œ6:15 p.m.â€ and â€œ28Â°â€ tell me again â€œput on jacketâ€ and â€œhurry to friends.â€ I am delayed, but not because of them. They are the lee of my emotional turbulence, my shelter from the icy wind. Still, I do not want to keep them waiting too long. The bank sign is correct. It is cold outside, and I have six blocks to go before reaching our favorite Irish pub. I am the last one out of the office by over three hours. As I walk, the backlog of work churns in my mindâ€¦staff schedules, making payroll, marketing expenses, press releases, sales, system maintenance. I decompress and try to breathe deeply with each step. After years of reinvesting every penny earned into my business, it finally may pay off. Just this week I received an offer from a large greeting card company in Missouri. They want to purchase RedMitten Greetings, pitching with phrases like young, leading edge, investment support for such a stable, maturing goliath peppered throughout. Five blocks still to go, so I try to focus on the snow. Each flake melts as it hits warmer ground. This is â€œshow snow,â€ an opening act. The â€œshow flakesâ€ are large, white, full, pretty. It is the snow of movies and songs tied to the holidays, but it will not last. â€œShow flakesâ€ want to be something more substantial, like a December blanket or February blizzard, but their dendrites are no match for the warm earth still cooling as the hours of daylight become shorter and shorter. Snowflakes are symmetrical. â€œSymmetryâ€ can be precise, mathematical, scientific, or, simply beautifulâ€”balanced by both form and proportion. Closing my eyes to think of the perfect snowflake, I visualize the fernlike Stellar Dendrite. With six arms, spikes and spindles of crystal, and ideal ice shafts, it is a thing of beauty. Like a glass etching, done by a skilled and steady hand, the lines that form each crystalline structure are striking. Still, with at least thirty-two additional types of snowflakes, few look anything like this under a microscope. Mathematical symmetry is different. Frozen water molecules want to align with hydrogen, but this does not form strong bonds, so they are compelled to be together in groups that fit just right, even if there is a weakness. Locked in the hexagonal shape of hydrogen, each crystal becomes a geometrical wonder of interlocked strength and delicate design, each staying with us only the shortest of time. How is it that we still do not know everything about something as simple as a snowflake? Much debate surrounds the mechanism that holds snowflakes together. Is it electrostatic, mechanical, or some supersticky liquid state at certain temperatures? For all I know, it could be love that brings a stray partial and water droplet together in some Shakespearean drama. He, the particle, came from the wrong side of the Great Divide high in the atmosphere; she, the droplet from a noble nimbus cloud family, who would never bond with such a piece of dirt. They unite as lovers, the â€œMono-particlesâ€ and â€œDropulets.â€ We understand that something between them connects, but not why, and they form something greater than the individual parts, a beautiful snowflake. I can see the gang at a table near the front of the bar, which is clean, dimly lit, and warm inside. They saved me a seat by the crackling hearth, and a drink waits. My friends are lifelong. I have known them since college. We were all in a social fraternity together, which explains their funny nicknames: Pike, Knobby, and Dord. Pike, Knobby, and Dord are married to wonderful womenâ€”Michelle, Kate, and Jean. I only wish I could find a woman to love me who is equally amazing. Our early years together were much like you would imagine for college age. Our fraternity members were known for things other than the ability to party, get girls, or play sports. We had the highest GPAs on campus and were all very involved in extracurricular organizations. The bonds with my six-sided friend-flake include shared values. We are not in unison on issues such as politics, religion, culture, or even music. It would be a rare day when two of us say the same thing on any of those subjects. Pike, Knobby, and Dord all grew up in small farm towns near Lake Michigan. These three boys can talk farm equipment, corn crops, ethanol, and Farmerâ€™s Almanac like no one else I know. Four-H, Boy Scouts, and working late-summer hours with their dads are all activities that build a certain character. Michelle, Kate, and Jean are from small towns in Michigan. They expect men to know how to fix and build things, which fortunately these men do. Honesty and integrity are important. In exchange for this, Michelle, Kate, and Jean have a loyalty to their husbands that is deep and vital. Not having grown up on a farm, I do not have the strong farm-boy character, and I am not married to one of the greatest women of our time. Most people use my full name, Hank Hanson, as I donâ€™t have a nickname. This group just calls me Hanson. I am twenty-nine and singleâ€¦have been for nearly a year now. I am greeted by a cheer of â€œHanson!â€ Seated with the people I trust more than any others, daresay, love, in the most comfortable of settings, I should feel better as the gin and tonic warms my blood. â€œYouâ€™re just in time, I was about to tell everyone about the farm report from my dad this morning,â€ Dord says. â€œOh good, I didnâ€™t miss it,â€ I reply. The boys are interested in his fatherâ€™s take on the rise in commodities and the effect it will have on winter crops. As my eyes begin to glaze over, Kate grabs my knee under the table to get my attention. â€œHey, Knobby and I are going to be at my parentsâ€™ house tomorrow morning. You know they would love to have you over if you wanted to stop in.â€ â€œOh, thatâ€™s really nice; I would do it in a heartbeat if I didnâ€™t already have to eat crepes with P3 in the morning and Entenmannâ€™s at P4â€™s,â€ I said. She smiles that classic leading lady beam. â€œI understand. There are only so many places you can be in a day.â€ â€œHanson,â€ Knobby calls from across the table. â€œWhat are you saying to my wife?â€™ â€œI was saying that I canâ€™t make it over to her parents tomorrow,â€ I reply. â€œOh, yeah, youâ€™ve got that one-day expedition you hold every holiday.â€ He chuckles. â€œItâ€™s your motherâ€™s third husbandâ€™s cousinâ€™s brotherâ€™s brunch or something?â€ â€œNo, no, his fatherâ€™s second wifeâ€™s son,â€ he adds with a laugh. â€œI thought that you just drove laps around the city playing some geocaching game putting miles on that hoopdee you drive,â€ Jean says. â€œHa, ha,â€ I feign humor. â€œYou are all right. CrÃªpes in Royal Oak with motherâ€™s second husband P3 as a fifteen-year tradition, followed by opening a box of Entenmannâ€™s in Wyandotte with fatherâ€™s second wife P4, lunch served by motherâ€™s third husbandâ€™s kitchen staff in Bloomfield Hills, in the home stretch I have first Thanksgiving dinner with dadâ€™s parents at the retirement home, then finally last Thanksgiving with dad and his current wife, Midge.â€ They look at me with what seems pity. It might be confusion, like the first time they found out. My epiphany that my family is different occurred in October of my first year of college. Pike and I were roommates, while Knobby and some other guy lived down the hall. I got a phone call before dinner with sad news about a death in the family. Fifteen minutes later in the cafeteria, I asked Pike and Knobby, â€œWhatâ€™s the proper etiquette for the death of your momâ€™s second husbandâ€™s third wifeâ€™s father?â€ An odd, and similar, look settled on their faces halfway through my question, a look that seemed painful, as if their minds could not process my question. They stared at the ceiling; their expressions suggested the quiet solving of complicated math equations. After a moment Pike asked, â€œYouâ€™re kidding, right?â€ Sadly, I was not kidding. It makes me wonder if the family isnâ€™t just blended, but pulverized. The answer to the original question is that one can always send flowers. It came to us after dinner and video games, and three bottles of Miller High Life apiece. In fact, flowers are what you should send to any female in my family, along with a personal note if a significant event occurs. For men, a card is enough. That epiphany inspired RedMitten Greetings; the remnants are in our marketing materials: â€œHelping you find the right words for any situation.â€ In rudimentary terms, my family starts with my dearly departed motherâ€”parental unit number 1, or P1 for short. She remarried twice, first to a man I refer to as P3, and then to her third husband, P5. Dad is parental unit number 2, or P2. His third and current wife, Midge, is P6. Between his first wife and Midge is P4, Tess. There are children from these unions. I have two full-blooded siblings, my brother, Mark, and sister, Lisa. I have two half-siblings, partially connected to me, and four stepsiblingsâ€”people the courts say I am, or was at one time, related to. In addition, there are people one might think should be relatives, but who are not. These are the children of spouses born prior to when either of my parents was involved in the various families. Looking back, I like to say that they peaked with me and it was all downhill from there, though I recognize it is a nearly cruel and pointed jab at the life choices of others. Consider my relationships with each of them. For instance, my fatherâ€™s second wife played more of a role as a stepmother than his current wife, who is closer in age, like a babysitter. Neither could be as wonderful as my biological mother, yet these two women, forced into my life, require attention. â€œHanson, are you actually ready for Thanksgiving? I mean, with all those people, donâ€™t they press your buttons?â€ Dord asks. My answer is instinctive. I sip my drink, and say, â€œThey donâ€™t just press my buttons, they installed my buttons. They wrote the operation manual. Iâ€™m never really ready.â€ â€œIt canâ€™t be that bad, Hank Hanson,â€ Kate says. â€œFamilies are funny things, Kate. You have heard that phrase, you can choose your friends, but you canâ€™t choose your family? Iâ€™m blessed and fortunate to have found you all, and well, weâ€™ve all chosen one another.â€ â€œYeah, you are blessed,â€ Knobby says with a laugh. â€œStill, my father gets to choose my family,â€ I say. â€œIs that the one your brother used to date?â€ Michelle asks. â€œOr the one whoâ€™s slightly off kilter?â€ Pike follows up. â€œThere are so many.â€ â€œThey are one and the same,â€ I say. â€œHow is your brother, Mark?â€ Dord asks. â€œMark is fine. We talk on the phone. Heâ€™s not coming out this year. The way he sees the family is different from how I see it, different from my sister, Lisa. I look back and remember things they donâ€™t. Maybe itâ€™s age, maybe interests, maybe just awareness.â€ â€œAnyone know what the lottery is up to this week?â€ Michelle asks, finding a break in the conversation. â€œItâ€™s only at nine million,â€ Knobby says. â€œOnly?â€ Dord asks. â€œListen,â€ Knobby says from behind his dark, thick-rimmed glasses. â€œIf I win one million dollars, thatâ€™s nice, thatâ€™s great. Kate and I are going to put it in the bank, square off with everyone, and take a nice trip. It is not enough after taxes, which takes half. I donâ€™t want to suffer the Oprah Effect.â€ â€œYouâ€™ve given some thought to our future,â€ Kate says with a smile. â€œWhatâ€™s the Oprah Effect?â€ Knobby wrinkles his nose in feigned disapproval at his own wife not knowing. â€œPlease, the Oprah Effect, when she has this big giveaway a few years ago, and everyone gets a free car. What the winners do not understand is that they have to pay taxes on the carâ€”and most people do not have the cash to pay the government at the door of the studio to take over the title. What are guests left to do, not take a car? Make Oprah look like a liar? Sell the car and take cash? Thereâ€™s no easy way out. Honey, we need to go big, or not go at all.â€ â€œYouâ€™ve given this considerable thought,â€ Kate says. â€œI have, honey, and you, my love, deserve more than five hundred thousand after taxes to build interest. You, my dear, need at least twenty million dollars to leave your job,â€ Knobby says with a slap of his open hand to the table, making dishes jump up and rattle. â€œTwenty is a lot,â€ I say in response to his excited energy on the topic. â€œWhatâ€™s the thinking behind twenty?â€ â€œWell, Hank Hanson, itâ€™s simple. I win twenty. Right away, I say, Iâ€™ll take that all in cash, thank you. I do not trust them to pay it out over a lifetime; the lottery commission could change the rules. Now down to say, eighteen cash, after the full payout penalty, and then the government takes its half. Now down to nine, and I put that nine million in a credit union savings account making minimal interest. Iâ€™m good with that. If I put part of it into a higher-risk investment, I can do that. I am still covered. Thatâ€™s a good life.â€ â€œWonâ€™t there be a lot of people asking you for donations to their cause? Family lining up with open hands?â€ â€œNo,â€ he replies emphatically. â€œIn fact, Hanson, you may never know that Iâ€™ve ever won money. Iâ€™m going to take every precaution to not let anyone but my beautiful wife, Kate, know.â€ During this, the busiest night of the year for every bar, pub, and pool hall in Michigan, we feel the crowd start to press against our table and the volume of the music rise. It is time to go. With reassurances to everyone that I will be fine walking the six blocks to my loft apartment over RedMitten Greetings, the ladies kiss me good night. Kate gives an added embrace, saying, â€œCall if you need anything.â€ The guys give hearty handshakes and the masculine half hug. Minutes later I am in my apartment and listening to my old-fashioned two-tape answering machine, which sounds off several reminders of the Thanksgiving Day itinerary. THANKSGIVING Chapter 2 I still have a half hour before my alarm will sound, but I am wide-awake. My cat, Perry Winkelberry, sits on my chest and looks into my eyes. He purrs and gives me a gentle head butt. After showering, shaving, and pretending that my hair pushed and parted a certain way makes a difference, I grab my overnight bag, pull my blazer from its hanger, and head to my car. It is still dark outside. The fresh cold air of morning feels good and wakes my senses. Last nightâ€™s snow remains in a thin layer over the green grass. Only the watery remains of snowflakes cover the concrete sidewalk to remind me they tried to establish a cold front overnight. My 1986 maroon-colored Pontiac Parisian Safari Station Wagon with wood trim and a â€œback-backâ€ backseat, which Iâ€™ve named Paris, waits patiently in my assigned parking space. Paris is the only car Iâ€™ve ever owned. I purchased it from my mother. Paris is roughly eighteen feet long and just shy of ten feet wide. After three preliminary pumps on the gas pedal and a turn of the key, she roars to life. My itinerary today is the same as it has been for five years. As was described to my friends last night, my total time with Paris today should take four hours and fifty-four minutes, and put approximately 268 miles on her chassis. Breakfast is uneventful. Sweet and delicious toppings are available to cover the crepes as three generations of P3â€™s friends pack into a small house for a Thanksgiving tradition. The people there knew my mother and say they still see her when they look at me, which pauses any conversation with an awkward stir of the emotional sediment that has gone untouched since our last meeting. After repeating my holiday mantra to nearly each of themâ€”â€œI am fine. The business is fine; and of course, I will tell everyone you said helloâ€â€”my family duties are fulfilled, and I return to the warmth of Paris and her V8 engine for the forty-five-minute drive to what is commonly called Downriver, just south of Detroit. Near the steel mill, Downriver has several middle-class suburbs along the Detroit River. They have names like River Rouge, Taylor, Southgate, Allen Park, and my favorite, named after a Native American tribe, Wyandotte. I find a note on the door of P4â€™s red-brick split-level. Last night Tess decided to drive to her sonâ€™s home to see her grandchildren. I find this to be typical of her behavior, but now I am ahead of schedule, giving me enough time to do something I have not had the chance to do since childhood: to attend the Thanksgiving Day Parade in Detroit. *** I find a parking space close to the parade route and step quickly toward Woodward Avenue. As a single adult, I can move past herds of families with small children to the strips of newly refurbished streets between Cass Corridor and the casinos built in Greektown. I find a good viewing location by an electrical box. I check; I am not blocking the view of kids. I am tall enough to see over others in front of me. A light flurry of flakes falls. My favorite part of the parade is watching the high school marching bands. Marching bands from across our mitten-shaped state get a chance to drive in and be part of the annual festivities. The Detroit All City Marching Band attends, as well as bands from local high schools, including Troy, Chippewa Valley, Macomb, Walled Lake, Cadillac, and Henry Ford II. They provide some of the highest-energy, best-marching music for this event. Other groups also march in the parade, with banners such as â€œVikings,â€ â€œMatadors,â€ or â€œWoodsmenâ€ from other parts of the state. What really gets Motown thumping is a local group playing â€œSmooth Criminalâ€ by Michael Jackson, with a dance team working it out in front of the cameras. â€œNow that was a great band,â€ I hear from my left. â€œAmazing,â€ I reply with a smile. I look to my left; she seems close to my age. She is slightly shorter, wearing a plum-colored jacket and a white knit hat, and her large blue eyes are beautiful. A small, perfectly constructed snowflake catches in the tip of an eyelash. â€œI love that song,â€ she says, taking a sip from her white cup. â€œAnd they had such a fun twist to it.â€ I try not to look at her directly, but cannot help myself. â€œYeah, that was maybe the best Iâ€™ve seen today.â€ â€œYou bring your kids here?â€ she asks. â€œAh, no, I donâ€™t have kids,â€ I say, putting my hands in my jacket pocket. She smiles. â€œFriends?â€ I chuckle a bit and shuffle my feet. â€œI have those, but not with me today. I was on my way to my next stop to visit some family when I decided to steal away for some time. I enjoy the parade. Itâ€™s a rare treat for me.â€ She is confident, direct, and has a presence that lacks reservation. â€œIâ€™m here with my sister and her three kids. They love to come down each year, and the guys stay for the game.â€ I pause, trying to think of what game might be on. For me Thanksgiving is about driving, eating, and telling the same stories repeatedly to people I see annually. â€œOh yeah, thatâ€™s right, the football game is down here now.â€ â€œDuh. Are you new to the area?â€ She is teasing me. â€œNo. It is just that I havenâ€™t been to the parade since I cannot remember the year, and I only catch the game on TV here and there. Games were always at the Silverdome, in Pontiac, the last time I came down for the parade.â€ There is a beat of silence, and I worry I have lost her interest. â€œIt really is a full day in Detroit.â€ She smiles intently, listening to each word. â€œIf you like to run, they start the day early with the Turkey Trot. They run the parade route.â€ â€œMost of my running is while being chased, but that makes sense now, all those people with numbers on.â€ She looks as if she is trying to make sense of me, and then smiles as if she has decided what her judgment of me will be. â€œWould you like some hot chocolate? We have an extra cup.â€ â€œYes, please, that would be great, thank you.â€ She reaches over to a backpack to remove a thermos and another white paper cup. Carefully pours and hands it to me. It is hot and tasty. â€œMmm. I think thereâ€™s a little something more than hot chocolate going on here,â€ I say with a warming grin. â€œYeah, that would be the peppermint schnapps. I gave you some from the adult thermos. It helps one make it through the day. You are an adult, right? Not some giant minor hustling the streets for a drink.â€ She pretends as if that were even a possible choice. â€œThank you, thank you very much.â€ I pause for another sip. â€œIâ€™m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Hank Hanson.â€ She removes her glove, extends her bare hand, and we shake. â€œIâ€™m Erin Contee.â€ Our hands touch, and in an instant, I can feel the full wonderfulness of her skin press my palm, soft, tender, delightful. â€œItâ€™s a pleasure to meet you, Erin.â€ â€œYouâ€™ve got warm hands.â€ Erin Contee smiles. The next band starts to thunder, eliminating any chance for conversation. We pause. The music is a fun version of â€œTake on Meâ€ by A-ha, a song that Erin and I seem to know every word to as we move in time to the music. As the band moves on and we can talk again, I fumble for another question to learn more about Erin. â€œWhat do you like about the parade? What brings you down here every year?â€ I ask. She leans in closer, as if it were a secret between us, and says, â€œI like people watching. There are so many interesting people here. Last year we stood next to Jack White from the White Stripes for a while. We talked a little bit. He was supernice. Are you someone famous?â€ â€œNo, no, Iâ€™m just a small business owner from Ann Arbor,â€ I say. â€œI like Ann Arbor. What type of business do you own?â€ Humble is the way I always talk about my achievements to new friends. â€œA small greeting card company. We make a line of greeting cards thatâ€™s slightly popular these days, and we have this online service where you can make and send your own designs.â€ â€œRedMitten Greetings?â€ she asks. â€œOh, you know about us. Thatâ€™s cool.â€ â€œOh my God, yeah, I know about you guys. You are world famous in Michigan. You have the coolest cards. I share those online all the time.â€ â€œYep, thatâ€™s what I do. What about you?â€ â€œGraphic designer. I live in Plymouth,â€ she says as if it were a small or disappointing fact. â€œI like that area, very friendly,â€ I say with encouragement. â€œYeah, but itâ€™s not cool like Ann Arbor.â€ â€œI donâ€™t know; Plymouth is pretty fun.â€ â€œItâ€™s OK, very family friendly, but if you donâ€™t have kids or a husband like me, itâ€™s just OK.â€ I pause for a moment, not knowing what to say. She is telling me sheâ€™s single, and she did offer me a drink; she must be interested, not just friendly. â€œAre you going to the game later with the boys?â€ I ask. â€œNo, they drove separately. After this weâ€™ll go over to the tailgate and eat some lunch, then head home. After the guys get back from the game, we will eat a big turkey dinner at my sisterâ€™s. How about you?â€ I smile, hoping she wonâ€™t freak out from my answer. â€œMy next stop is my motherâ€™s third husband and his family in Bloomfield Hills; then Iâ€™ll drive up to St. Clair, not St. Clair Shores, to see my grandparents, and after that, over to Brighton to see my father and his family.â€ â€œThatâ€™s like, five hours in the car, not including time with people,â€ she says, processing the time and distance as she speaks. â€œYeah. And Iâ€™ve already had two stops and three hours in the car this morning.â€ She leans in again. â€œI bet you donâ€™t really like the way you spend Thanksgiving, do you?â€ I look her into the eyes, â€œYou know me so well already, Erin, and weâ€™ve just met.â€ â€œWhy donâ€™t I put my number in your phone,â€ she says, exposing her hand again, â€œand if you need a friendly voice while you drive the day away, you call me. I want you to call and tell me about your adventures.â€ I pull my phone from my jacket and surrender it under the power of her will. She begins to type. Trying to be interesting I ask, â€œDid you do this for Jack White last year too?â€ â€œNo, we just had dirty sex in an alley,â€ her quick wit fires back. â€œReally?â€ â€œNo, Hank Hanson, Iâ€™m just messing with you.â€ Her delivery is dry and her smile is nearly sinister. â€œHank Hanson, are you really a superhero?â€ With a wink, I reply, â€œSuper, maybe. Hero, canâ€™t say yet.â€ â€œHank Hanson, if that is your real name, call this number. Tell me about your adventures.â€ She returns the phone. â€œErin Contee, itâ€™s been a pleasure watching the parade with you.â€ She says eagerly, â€œAre you leaving?â€ â€œI have to get to my next stop of the day.â€ â€œYouâ€™re not going to stay for Santa?â€ I smile and before I can stop myself from being too cheesy, I say, â€œI already have the best present I could ask forâ€”your number.â€ Her white cheeks flush on pale skin, nearly matching her plum jacket. â€œDonâ€™t be afraid to use that gift. Donâ€™t let it expire.â€ We are both full of smiles as I step away from the electrical box. I turn back twice, watching as she glances back at me. Finally I force myself to walk down Grand River to where I parked Paris.