Thanksgiving weaves precious memories across the decades

The sound of steel being honed to a razor edge is one of my most enduring Thanksgiving memories.

My late father, David D. Hanneman, always sat at the head of the sculpted wooden dining room table on Thanksgiving. His was the seat of honor and authority.

On one November Thursday every year, it was also the place where the golden-brown turkey landed to have its meat separated from bone, to the delight of all. That could not happen until the knife was put to the honing rod to prove it was ready for the task ahead.

I described the typical Hanneman Thanksgiving scene in my 2010 book, "The Journey Home," which detailed my father’s cancer battle during his final six months.

Schwaat-ting! Schwaat-ting! The sound of carving knife sliding across the sharpening steel was a sure sign that dinner was almost ready. Then the glorious bird, toasty brown from six hours in the oven, was set on a platter to “settle” for a few minutes before the master endeavored to carve it for the waiting masses.

The memory is burned in my mind of one of the last Thanksgivings Dad sat in his rightful place. The 2005 photo atop this article captures that memory to perfection. Family around the table, a smiling Dad carving the bird, everyone waiting to say grace.

Whenever I think of that day, and so many dozens before it, I like to linger for just a while. I strain to try to hear the bustle and eager chatter at the table, see the smiling faces, and even behold an occasional tear.

Then to pile into the family room to watch the Green Bay Packers play the Detroit Lions. Maybe doze on the couch, until my three children came along. Then there were no more turkey naps.

A Hanneman Thanksgiving in Wisconsin, circa 1970. Mother Mary Hanneman is in polka dots, my grandparents Carl and Ruby Hanneman are to the left, and the author is the redhead.

After that, it was back to the kitchen for Mom’s unparalleled pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

Such simplicity weaves beautiful memories.

When I was a child, Thanksgiving meant getting my own "glass" of wine to go with the turkey, sweet potatoes, green-bean casserole with almond slivers, jelled cranberry sauce, rolls with butter, and, second only to the bird: Mom's signature dressing. I can almost taste it.

This Thanksgiving I will raise a glass of wine and toast the many family members and friends from that table. Most of them — grandparents, Mom and Dad, family friends — have gone to their reward. But each of them left something behind that I can treasure anew by simply calling forth a thought.

Memories of Thanksgiving. I am most grateful for them.

My recollections are but pale reflections of another banquet we will all share, in a place where the day never ends, the food is plentiful, and all hearts are full because we will never again be apart.

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