We all have certain holiday memories that we hold dear. Then there are those that just won’t allow themselves to be forgotten completely, even when we want them gone. I will explain.
My husband and I decided early in our marriage that our family would consist of two children When the Lord blessed us with a handsome boy, followed by a lovely girl, we were certain we had made the right decision.
By the time we elected to build our dream home, our son had two children and our daughter, while married, had not started a family. We built a house we thought would accommodate a growing brood and jokingly named it Cici’s Bed & Breakfast, thinking we might have four grandchildren, maybe five. The house would lovingly hold at least that many. I looked forward to hosting my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. But I digress.
When our married son was a student at Dallas Theological Seminary, he requested that the family come to their house to celebrate Thanksgiving. Traveling that distance was expensive, and we could better afford the trip since he and his wife were students. So, we packed up as many family members as would fit in our SUV and headed to Texas. It was great. The temps were in the 70’s and those of us from Tennessee had never experienced such a warm Thanksgiving. After that year, our son announced that he “owned” Thanksgiving and wherever he might live in the future, the family should come to him; and we did.
While he was still in Texas, we all went for Thanksgiving. When he made the move to Cleveland, Tennessee, we all followed for Thanksgiving. When he answered the call to accept a position at a church in Greenville, South Carolina, we traveled to that state. It was during a Greenville Thanksgiving that a near life-altering event occurred.
When we came together for the holiday I am writing about, our son had four children and our daughter had one. Our daughter is a fabulous cook and had made a new dessert she called Strawberry Love. It was amazing.
We had enjoyed an incredible meal, the kids were down for the night all snuggled and cozy, and the three men, my husband, our son, and our son-in-love, were watching football and snacking on desserts. My daughter, my daughter-in-love, and myself, were relaxed and enjoying stimulating conversation in another room. All was right with the world.
Suddenly, we heard a horrible sound coming from the den where the men were watching TV. To be accurate as possible, it sounded like a drowning seal trying to speak Wookie. The three of us jumped up and ran to the den where we found my husband performing the Heimlich maneuver on Chad, our son-in-love, who was choking and unable to catch his breath. It wasn’t working, so we all began lining up for our turn to try and help him. Surely one of us could dislodge whatever was stuck in Chad’s windpipe. But my husband refused to give up his position, and with Chad standing over six feet in height, none of us shorties would have been in any better status to help him.
Don’t despair. This story has a happy ending. After what seemed like hours, but was probably less than a couple of minutes, Chad finally coughed up the offending food that had lodged in his throat. It was a piece of pretzel from the dessert Christa had made.
It took a while, but eventually, after many tears and hugs, we all settled back down and attempted to enjoy the rest of the evening. All of us pretended we weren't dwelling on what could have happened and how our lives would have changed if my husband had been unsuccessful in saving Chad.
Through the years, as our daughter and our son continued growing their families, Thanksgiving has since moved to our house and our children and grandchildren (numbering nine currently) come to us on alternating years. Our house is filled to overflowing with love, fifteen family members, and any friends and neighbors who want to join.
We can joke now, sort of, about the Thanksgiving when our daughter made a delicious dessert that got her husband "all choked up" called Strawberry Love, now known as Choke Chad Pie. Looking back, the episode brings to mind a movie where a number of people were standing in line on an airplane awaiting their turn to slap some sense into a hysterical female.
Years later, not one of us has chosen to make Strawberry Love again, and it is the only recipe we don’t offer to share with others. And all has remained right with the world; at least in our little corner of it during Thanksgiving.