Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Always has been. I begin cooking four days in advance. I surround myself with people. I invite everyone and have room for whoever drops in, and I look forward to them doing it. I also like my relatives. Perhaps because they are pretty aloof and really don’t come around much. But, I don’t have that problem relative that drives everyone crazy. I guess actually I am that relative.

The house awakens, full of life and magic. Bubbling pots urge you to come and taste. Oven doors open then close, blasting you with heat and the rich aromas of roasting meats and exotic dressings. The dining room table sparkles and laughs with crystal wine glasses, tall candles and Grandma’s china and silver. I rummage through the cellar deciding which wine goes with which course. I eagerly anticipate the sound of the first cork popping (to hell with screw caps) and the first voices coming through the door. There will be drinking and dancing and singing.

Days before, preparing my shopping list I remember my wife pumping the pedals of her player piano, singing at the top of her lungs, while the dogs howl, the parrot screams, and the kids fight to choose the next music roll. I stop then and marvel at how many of my friends and relatives are no longer with us.

I miss my wife and all those who are gone, and I am thankful for knowing all of them. I am thankful that the house is warm, and that all who surround me have hearts that are even warmer. I am thankful that my old dog Bogie is still with me. He sleeps so quietly now in his old age that I often catch myself imitating a new mother. I silently creep up on him, not wanting to wake him, but wanting to make sure he is still breathing. I am thankful for all of you who I have recently met and hopefully will see again next year.

As I tried to explain once to Shannon who started with us five years ago, but left inspired to start a company of her own. It is not the final destination that is important. It is the journey.