We Gather Together
Thanksgiving has come and gone, and this one was memorable, if not quite what we all imagined it would be.
It began for me on Wednesday the 21st, when I drove down to St. Petersburg to spend the evening with my grandmother - something I always enjoy. The drive was exceedingly slow due to heavy holiday traffic, which only cleared southbound in Wildwood, where the Turnpike begins. But I arrived in St. Pete eventually, and Grandma and I chatted into the night. I slept comfortably, and, as an added bonus, my cousin Marshall–who is presently living with my grandmother–has an Arctic White Fender Stratocaster.
Grandma and I chatted away Thanksgiving morning, and eventually made our way to my Aunt Julie’s new house in Pinellas Park, which was actually quite a nice place, with a huge back yard and a garage tailor made for Thanksgiving dinners. Of course, it is a custom in my family to sing a hymn in lieu of a spoken prayer, and this year was no different. One of these days we ought to make a recording of it, so that ages hence we’ll remember what it was to spend Thanksgiving at a Hill household.
Uncle Tom, Dad and I gathered around and flipped through Connie and Charlie’s scrapbooks of their roadtrip down Route 66. Miriam would have enjoyed that. But before too long I had to make a road trip of my own, back to Gainesville to spend what was left of the holiday with Mrs. Hill, and help her organize our own Post-Thanksgiving in what ever way I could. The drive back was considerably less congested, and in the absence of traffic, I enjoyed crossing the Howard Frankland Bridge, speeding through Tampa, and passing a favorite old landmark. I even made a short detour as part of the Dana Heritage Project, which I will detail in a future post.
Our premiere Post-Thanksgiving was to have been a happy gathering of combined families, an idea Mrs. Hill had, and she pulled off something remarkable, bringing together over a dozen people whom otherwise would have had no home-cooked meal. Unfortunately, my grandmother fell ill, and my mother had to work, so their absences were felt. But the food was delicious, and Miriam’s efforts were super-human.
My father bravely drove alone in his 1983 BMW 320i, which he loves. But the sudden death of his transmission at the Newberry Road exit spelled the end of his car’s journey under its own power. After some confusion regarding his exact whereabouts–I thought he was at the Red Lobster, when, in fact, he was on the Interstate off-ramp–I met up with him, and we got his car to a safe location in the Borders parking lot and made our way home for dinner. But we had to leave early to take advantage of the little remaining daylight, and attempted an on-location repair with no success. An improvised tool proved ineffectual, and the appropriate-but-pricey Craftsman version was too large to fit in the limited space beneath the car. While I was in Ocala photographing a wedding the following day, Dad worked more on the car, only to come to the conclusion that repair was likely impossible. Sunday the 25th was spent arranging for the BMW to be transported back to Pasco County. The best solution we could find was a trailer attached to a U-Haul. It worked fine, and the fellow at the Gainesville U-Haul even gave us a deal. So, U-Haul is hereby removed from the Axis of Evil.
My father’s automotive calamity was an unexpected expense and frustration for him, I know. On the other hand, I was able to spend more time with him than I had in a decade. And you can’t put a price on that.
I don't like going places, doing things or seeing people.