In the midst of the drinking tales, I left out the meaning in my Thanksgiving. Ironically, a French Canadian reminded me of that today.

Growing up, the house sharing a plot of land with ours was occupied by a couple who were in their late-50's when I was born. When you are a baby, that seems so old, but now I understand they were simply the age of my parents today, and I feel foolish.

They had six children, most were gone and grown by the time I arrived. Two were teens when I was born, and they grew into my babysitters, and truthfully, they were the closest things to sisters I had.

Their parents, I affectionately called Mom and Dad, just like their 6 other kids. I honestly thought their names were Mom and Dad.

They used to tell stories, Mom and Dad, about how I would perform amazing feats of crib acrobatics and crawl out of my crib at dawn, strip out of my clothes, and crawl up to their house and naked, play quietly in the mud underneath their clothesline. Mom would always find me in the morning, often digging and once, digging to bury the entire contents of my Father's wallet piece by piece, and she would call and wake my parents and sing "Look what I found in the morning dew."

At Mom and Dad's house I would eat peanut butter and jelly sandwich's on white bread cut into rectangles, the way I liked it, and not on wheat bread cut in triangles like my real Mom did it. I played with Shirley Temple paper dolls at their house, no doubt more than 20 years old from their kids, but new to me.

Several times a year, Mom would measure my brother and I up against the wall in the doorway of their 60's-mod kitchen, marking with a pencil and competing against all of the other kids markings. She would make pains to make mine stand out and write my name and the year and I could gauge, if I was taller or shorter than her kids and my brother when they were my age.

I started watching General Hospital with Mom, when I was 5. I would sit next to her as she did her crosswords and painted her nails with shimmery, opalescent Revlon Pink, and she would let me use some on my little nails also.

I would hang out in the basement with her teenage daughters, my babysitters, as one in beauty school would use my baby fine hair for practice and let me get into her drawer of drug store cosmetics and load it on - painting my face all sorts of glamorous. The other teenage daughter would write and illustrate children's books and use me as her focus group. Seymour the Octopus was my FAVORITE.

Everyday after school, through the early part of high school, I would go to their house after school and sit with Mom while Dad tinkered around the house and the garden. Later in high school, when I grew wild, I would still come by, but less frequently. I would go to show my prom dresses, or give them my class pictures. I would have wild parties when my parents went away, and they never told on me. Never.

I remember when I got accepted to the college of my choice, my parents & I celebrated and then they said "go up and tell Mom and Dad." So I ran up the short hill with my letter in hand and blew into their house to re-read the letter to them. They were so proud.

When I accepted work in London during college, I ran up again, to tell them and they were beyond proud. Mom said, "You always were the smart one, Partygirl. I remember, of all my kids, you would come home and do your homework straight away with no complaints. And look at you now. You're a big shot." And to this couple, a stubborn Irish homemaker and German electrician, I *was* a big shot.

After college, I went home less and less. It's been 6 years since college, and I've only gone up once, maybe twice, to visit.

When I arrived home this Thanksgiving, my Mom said she hadn't seen Mom around and suggested I go up to say hi and check on her. My parents were afraid she'd fallen ill, and didn't want to call. I balked. Finally my Mother shooed me out of the door and I embarked on the short walk up the little hill through my backyard, and ducking to pass under the clothesline that I somehow tower over now, I reached their side door. I must have made this trip thousands of times.

My older "sister," my babysitter, who babysat me for an overnight when I was 8 and she was filled with her one and only baby, in her very first grown up apartment, opened the door. Woman to woman we faced each other, and I flushed feeling foolish remembering her 20 years ago as she was newly married and filled with child, inviting me for a grown up sleepover in her barely furnished apartment with walls as high as the ceiling made with boxes of Pampers. I remembered what a wonderful time we had that weekend, just the two of us, eating ice cream with peanut butter way past my bedtime and in the morning, she made us pancakes that were the size of the whole frying pan!!!!! I bored my mother to tears after that trip, telling her that J. had made me a pancakes that filled the whole pan! Imagine!!!!!

We stood, woman to woman, me remembering and suddenly understanding. Suddenly questioning why her husband never came home that weekend. Wondering why she had invited me, an 8-year-old to stay with her just a month shy of giving birth. Understanding why she needed me then, an 8-year-old who wouldn't recognize the warning signs of a bad marriage as her own friends would, but would see all of this grown up life through a child's eyes, as wonderful and exciting. Understanding why the marriage, which I had witnessed as flower girl, ended after only a couple of years.

We embraced. Maybe I embraced with more feeling than normal, I can't remember. I just remembered understanding it all.

I walked into the house and saw the doorway with my last measurements. One of the other sisters was there, and my babysitter's grown son's girlfriend was there. A pretty young lady just 5 years younger than me. And there sat Dad.

Dad is old now. I could hardly believe it. He can't hear well, so I shouted, making my life in New York sound grand. I asked for Mom, and Dad's face fell, as J. explained that Mom fell and hurt her back. She's in a therapy unit of the hospital and has stopped eating because she wants to be sent home. The girls gave me a wink, and we changed the subject.

Dad asked about NYC after the attacks and I assured him that I am fine. NYC is wonderful and not as bad as they paint on the news, I lied.

Dad told me about the "big war." He was in from ages 18-22. He was a marine. He and his friends all signed up after hearing the Pearl Harbor announcement at the movie show. They all stood up and went to their local recruiters. They couldn't all get into the other branches, and they wanted to go together - too young to understand they would be split up anyway - so they enlisted in the marines in 1941.

He spoke of Guadacanal. I think they may have actualy built a canal. Then Australia and New Zealand. Malaria and mosquitos. Being 100 lbs with 50 pounds of gear and the third guy off the boat heading to shore for battle.

"Third Guy off the boat! Are you nuts! Those are the guys who die!" I exclaimed. He chuckled, "I preferred going on my own over being pushed off."

"I would have jumped into the water and hid until the battle was over!" I said.

"I made that mistake," he said. "50 lbs pounds of gear on a 100 pound body with malaria makes ya sink!," he laughed. "I was lucky to have a big guy behind me who fished me out!"

He shook his head at this battle we are fighting and said it will never be over. We will never win, he said. And even if we do, it won't bring those people back, he said.

And if we don't fight, more people will die, I replied. He nodded in agreement. And as if we weren't in the room, he watched the news footage on the little kitchen TV and said, "Yep. I remember that sand. The dirt and the sand...I never thought I would get it off of me. The sand was the worse."

I stayed over an hour and then left to get ready for my Thanksgiving dinner, promising to come back at Christmas. The walk home, was very different from the many others over the years.

I suddenly understood that Mom and Dad are old. They won't be around for much longer. I am a magnificently lucky girl for having had them in my life.

Thanksgiving.

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