Editor’s note: This column was written at Thanksgiving 2006.

Thanksgiving weekend, for me, is the first gift of the holiday season. Now that the arrival of a grandchild has changed the family Christmas venue to Boston, Thanksgiving is at our house. It’s a much easier deal.

I find myself, however, not wanting to let go of all of our Christmas traditions – or the feelings that go with them. While my daughter, Alix, and her family are at the beginning stages of creating their own traditions, we are keeping a condensed version here. One just can’t throw out forty years of memories to say nothing of 17 cartons of decorations.

So, this weekend, everyone is home, the hot water heater is struggling to keep up, and the house is filled with chatter, jokes, and a toddler’s excitement at exploring. Grandpa and Gogo’s house has lots of nooks and crannies and the Christmas tree is up.

Honestly, I’m not one of those early birds. Putting up our tree in mid-November before the outside world freezes, seems foreign. But it does feel wonderful to have it done.

Then yesterday, ten members of the O’Brien clan from Rochester came for lunch on their way to another family celebration in Ohio. Everyone enjoyed our Christmas scene.

We had our usual over-the-top Thanksgiving feast, New England style. Not only are we traditional, but I found out the year that I modified the apple stuffing that tradition is not to be tampered with. Autumn magazines are filled with recipes for newfangled pumpkin pie or stuffing with an addition of Portuguese sausage. Any changes I have attempted have been greeted with loud objections.

However, in deference to our British son-in-law, we have added Brussels sprouts and I, for one, applaud the addition to our other four vegetables. Ian also loves our traditional creamed onions and was delighted to find mince pie among our selection of apple crunch, pecan and pumpkin.

Actually, we’ve had two pumpkin pies for a long time because my son gets one to himself. That tradition began when Bart arrived home during his plebe year at the Naval Academy. Anxious for “real food,” he arrived at the back door hungry. He sliced a generous piece out of the large pumpkin pie and plated it. He then took the rest of the pie to the family room – with a fork. Two pumpkin pies are now the revised tradition.

I remember a non-traditional Thanksgiving that I celebrated years ago in southern California. My friendly hosts had invited me for “Thanksgiving with all the trimmings.” Although I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be two kinds of Cape Cod cranberry sauce, I arrived with wine and great anticipation. The “trimmings” turned out to be ham, yams, and a broccoli Jello salad. And rolls. That was it. I remember saying yes to the second margarita. In the end, we did have pumpkin pie – with chocolate chip ice cream. And they had seemed like such nice people.

It has taken me years to realize that although food traditions are important, the people around the table and around the Christmas tree are the only things that really matter … that and the loving feelings we share. We certainly learned that in the past few years when the little boy who grew up occupying the seat to my right was actually a very busy man – flying and fighting in Iraq.

It’s hard to describe the feeling when one is missing. We talked around it and tried to ignore that he wasn’t with us, but it wasn’t the same. I found myself passing the relish tray and wondering what he was eating, and under what circumstances.

But this year all the happy faces around the table include my son, the veteran with his jokes and sassy banter, now a full-time grad student. And especially this year, true to its name, Thanksgiving is a time for our gratitude. We are so grateful the children can come from distances so we all can be together: for the pride of watching Alix and Ian joyfully embracing parenthood; the sheer delight of Rory’s toddling reign over the household; the bustle of visiting cousins; my mother’s consistent good humor; and my back holding up through the weekend. Lots of blessings.

Hopefully, by the time you read this, our turkey rack is in a soup pot at my mother’s house, Rory and I are heading for the brook to throw stones, and Tom is contemplating a piece of pie with his second cup of coffee. Sounds pretty traditional to me.

A 2024 catch-up: In the 18 years since this was written, Rory, the toddler, is now a college sophomore; she acquired a younger brother, Malcolm, who is now 16. My husband, Tom, died of cancer. My mother passed 9 years later, and I married Dear Richard 11 years ago.

Yes, life continues to happen, to change. And our family traditions are the gossamer ribbon tying our new days and our memories together.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren.