The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

appreciation

A Thanksgiving Toast to Appreciation and Understanding

by

“It wasn’t just about us and our festivities. It was about everyone else who is now missing someone at their table.”

My earliest memory of Thanksgiving isn’t of all of us sitting around a table, playing football outside or baking with my mom. It’s mini hotdogs.

Yup. That’s right. Little pigs in a blanket with ketchup and mustard. I’m not even sure if that is a normal Turkey Day delicacy, but for my family it sure is.

This has been my favorite holiday forever and ever and ever. We normally wake up and eat cinnamon buns, watch the parade, go on a hike and then go to our cousins for a big Turkey Day celebration. I’m that girl who shops for a new “Thanksgiving sweater” every year. I’m also that girl who scrapes the marshmallows off the sweet potato casserole, guilty as charged. I’m so sorry to anyone who gets in line behind me. Snooze you lose Uncle Stu!

For some people, the food is what makes this their favorite holiday. But honestly, it’s just another day in the life for me.

I eat stuffing all the time when I’m home because I am obsessed with the box mix. I eat roasted veggies almost every night for dinner when I am at school. I don’t like mashed potatoes or cornbread and my typical evening ends with a nice amount of dessert.

What makes the holiday so special to me is being with my family. I’ve said this before but I’ll say it again: if you know me, you know how important family is. There are some relatives that we really only see once or twice a year, this holiday being one of those times. It’s the time where I fill them in on how school is going, what my favorite classes are, how the boyfriend I don’t have is doing, etc.

So when my dad texted me a few weeks ago saying that Thanksgiving wasn’t happening, I had a moment. I sat on my bed in my towel dress and hair wrap (two amazing investments for any college gal to have) and shed a few tears. I got really worked up. No Thanksgiving? Just Mom, Dad and Alexis? But why can’t we all just get COVID tested before?

It was no use. It just wasn’t going to work. But after my five-minute breakdown and a few deep breaths later, I realized that it was okay. That was just the way it was going to have to be.

Did I have the CUTEST Thanksgiving sweater and boots all ready to go? Yes.

Was I worried about how the turkey would come out because my Aunt Kara normally cooks it and my mom is a pescatarian? Yes. (It ended up being fabulous.)

But, was this the responsible thing to do amidst the pandemic? Absolutely. It wasn’t just about us and our festivities. It was about everyone else who is now missing someone at their table.

While the day might’ve looked a lot different than normal, at least I could count on one thing: the mini hotdogs. Grandma delivered a tray to our cousins and us the day before. Don’t worry she had some for herself too.

Instead of sitting on my cousin’s couch after three rounds of dinner regretting that extra helping of stuffing, we were all wrapped up, like pigs in a blanket, in our living room all safe and sound by 4 pm because we ate at 3. Plus, I was already wearing sweatpants so I didn’t even have to change after dinner! It was perfect.

I hope everyone was able to celebrate in some way, shape or form. Whether it was Facetiming, Zooming or calling a loved one or eating a whole pie by yourself (you deserve it.) I’m so lucky that I was able to come home from school and spend the day – and the next two months – with my family and that is something that I appreciate and understand now more than ever.

Happy Holidays and stay safe. Like Governor Cuomo said, “Don’t be a turkey. Wear a mask!”

 

 

 

 

Latch-Key Love (Thanks, Mom!)

by

hand-key-pixBy Dan Levitz

When I was in first grade, my Mom went back to work and informed me that I would be coming home to an empty house two days a week. She assured me that she’d be 20 minutes away by car and would come home immediately if I ever needed her. She gave me a house-key tied to a shoe-string and put it around my neck. She told me that if I didn’t lose it she’d upgrade the string to a silver chain before long. The only time she ever actually had to come home was when I fell off my bike, and, by then, the string had progressed to a gold-filled chain. Years later, a father to small children myself, I asked her if she was out of her mind having a six-year-old come home to an empty house. She replied with absolute certainty, “I knew you could handle it.” She was right, and I believe that experience nudged me in the direction of being an independent person.

In 6th Grade, our teacher assigned a 50-page term report about a specific country. This was way beyond anything I felt I could ever accomplish. 
I knew I’d have to write a lot of words about Japan but, beyond that, I had no clue. We had almost the whole year to work on it and, literally the night before it was due, I approached my Mom, handed her my wildly chaotic and disorganized notes and asked her to turn them into at least 50 typed pages, single-spaced please. At the time, I couldn’t really understand the pained expression on her face, but I clung to the fact that months earlier she’d said she’d type it. It never occurred to me that she might have needed more notice. My grade wasn’t great, but 
I’ll never forget that she stayed up most of the night typing for her 
screw-up son.

Just as high school began, along with all new freshmen, I was evaluated by the school speech therapist who quickly determined that I needed to come see him three times a week to work on my serious speech impediment. Throughout my entire education this had never come up. Terrible penmanship? Sure. Sloppy work-habits? Absolutely. However, I had always thought that my ability to enunciate was one of my few natural gifts. That this professional, who, I might add, happened to lisp himself, so fervently believed that I needed to work with him was horribly upsetting. As I was self-conscious to begin with, and now terrified, I told my Mother about the situation and she said quite calmly, “He’s out of his mind; you have my permission to not go at all.” That was enough for me. I never went to see him, and, although he did become something of a nemesis, the welcome support from my Mom enabled me to defy that particular authority figure (which was not a natural thing for me to do back then).

In college, I was amazed at how some of my peers were just going berserk with new-found freedom–crazy over-indulgent behavior that sometimes evolved into self-destruction. 
I was having a great time, but didn’t feel drunk with freedom because I had actually been afforded a lot of independence while in high school. No hard curfew and a general policy that, as long as I was responsible, I could pretty much do my own thing. I had friends whose parents would flip out if they weren’t home by midnight. I remember my Mom’s explanation about why she didn’t worry if I was out late, “If something happens to you I’ll hear about.” This was a simple and coolly logical approach; it’s one I may have trouble replicating as a parent, but it worked for her and ultimately was a gift to me.

My Mom was an entrepreneur. She went into business with her kid sister, which is why I sometimes came home to an empty house as a kid. The business lasted for 35 years and, besides my Father, it was clearly the passion of her life. She traveled all over the world in connection with the business, met a myriad of interesting people and forged her own path; this after her previous life of being a doctor’s wife which she found unfulfilling until she went off to work. She’s retired now but she keeps busy wheeling and dealing, happily selling the art, books, jewelry and other collections that she’s so happily accumulated over the years.

I can’t say that my Mom always knew exactly what she was doing as a parent, but I now understand that no parent ever really does. I do know that she’s always seen the best in me no matter what, and that’s not a bad place to start.

Dan Levitz has been a Chappaqua resident for 11 years. Lorraine Levitz, at 88, can most likely be found in Lower Manhattan on her daily two-hour walk.