The Empty Chair

There’s nothing like a South Georgia Thanksgiving.

Our family members came like migrants for the annual tradition. We looked like a motley crowd of emaciated refugees on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Not that Colquitt, Georgia is Mecca, though some have held the town to be the intellectual center of the South. It seems that everybody who’s smart leaves. Nevertheless, in terms of relevance, Colquitt might as well be on another planet. We discovered that when we moved away.

Some held that all residents of Colquitt were related. A rumor circulated that our family once held a family reunion, and the entire town showed up. I used to think that to be an over-exaggeration of the truth, but I’m not sure anymore. The familiar atavistic resemblances are hard to dismiss!

All roads led to my grandparent’s home. They began this tradition, primarily because they had the biggest table in town and liked to cook. It accommodated twenty-four. My grandmother pulled out the fine china, gleaming silverware and crystal for the occasion. Our plates were laden and conversation was constant. We had a year to catch up on.

Baptist deacons have God’s ear, so my grandfather, who always sat in ‘his place’ at the table’s head, blessed the meal, blessed it, and blessed it again. I once heard The Voice say, “Enough, I’ve heard you already...let’ em eat.”

I recently received a letter from my cousin after the death of her husband. In it she lamented the dispersion of our family. Her mind was already on Thanksgiving. She wished we could all get together again like the old days. There’s great comfort in family connections.

Ah, the ‘old days’. Sadly, I thought, it’s impossible. Like many families, the old family table has disappeared. There’s no going back. It’s only there in memory now. Even if it were possible, too many chairs sit unoccupied. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Her note reminded me of past Thanksgivings. I dug through the photo archives and came up with our last two Thanksgiving ‘family photos.’ They’d qualify for the Southern Gothic museum. The years 1986 and 1988 now seem a century away. Bitter-sweet memories walked through my mind.

Unusual hairdos, strange clothes and even stranger teenagers stood out. The teenagers did their best ‘I’m-not-really-related-to-these-weirdoes’ look. They hated family photos. Maybe they even hated us. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on that. Teenagers invented the ‘I’m bored’ look. For that I give them credit. Ours wished they were somewhere else. Often we did, too. Which is probably why some species eat their young.

Smiles dominated the photos. The secret to a good family photo is to make it before they start drinking or eating. No family can survive more than a couple days of togetherness. Things fall apart quickly after the Thanksgiving meal. Saturday football games have saved many a family free-for-all.

We have mighty hunters in our family. Some got up at 0 dark thirty, loaded weapons best suited for elephants and attempted to ambush Bambi. They never succeeded. After dinner my grandfather would sneak out to the farm and count his prize cows. He always seemed relieved when he returned.

Sometimes I took a Thanksgiving morning run to work up an appetite. My brother would ride his bike along, keeping me company. I remember one morning on a country road. I had no sooner heard the shotgun blast when a load of birdshot whizzed past, inches away from my face. “Mistook you for a turkey,” the farmer shouted, holding an empty bottle. I didn’t stop to argue. I ran through the cemetery from then on.

We tend to think things will go on forever as they are. They won’t. Had we known this we might have embraced our family reunions more fervently. But we didn’t. The tyranny of the urgent got in the way…things like schools, jobs, bills and such as that.

Our old photos revealed only three empty chairs at the metaphorical table. Today there are seven. The old clan is dwindling, but a new one is emerging. A family photo today would reveal different faces under gray hair. Teenagers would be holding babies. There would be no empty chairs at the table. The tradition would have survived.

Thanksgiving is more than a meal and a time for family reunions. It’s an idea, a spirit. It continues to remind us of our bounty and our freedom. The old days are past, but the memories of our collective empty chairs continue to keep the tradition alive.

And this year I’m pretty sure the turkey and its entourage will continue show up and add their part to the festivities.


Bud Hearn
November 15, 2010