NOV 2023- Jamaica

In 1984, I attended a cousin’s wedding and had such an unpleasant encounter with my mother I dreaded the thought of having to be with her for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, less than a month away. 

Some days later, I was on the phone with my friend Maria, a neighbor, who often helped me deal with difficult issues. This time I didn’t hold back, grumping about enduring another Thanksgiving with my mother—the complicated holiday food preparation, comments about how I look, how I’m living my life, what an ungrateful daughter I am . . .  Moan. Groan. Groan. Moan.

Maria laughed. “Where would you rather be?”

I have no idea why, but I said the first place that came to mind. “Jamaica.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“What?” I was shocked. “My mother will be furious if I don’t come. Who’s going to help her cook and clean and wash and . . .”

Still laughing, she said, “Nancy, your mother lives three hours away. What’s she going to do? When she starts ranting, hang up.”

In a state of suspended disbelief, I told her, “You’re right. Let’s go.”

I phoned my mother to tell her I would not be coming to Thanksgiving. To say she was livid is to demonstrate the paucity of language. I hung up many times, but each time I spoke with Maria, she reminded me I was an adult. I could choose where and with whom I wanted to spend Thanksgiving. In the end, there was nothing my mother could do to stop me. We booked our flight, chose a hotel, and the day before Thanksgiving we flew to Jamaica. 

At breakfast, the morning of Thanksgiving we were warned a storm was forecast, that we would be kept informed in regard to preparation. The wind increased. The temperature dropped. Soon the rain with lightning and thunder pounded the tin roof of our cottage. No Thanksgiving dinner would be served.

Maria laughed. “Who’d have thought your mother’s wrath could reach Jamaica?”

The storm may have been ferocious, but Maria and I lay snug in our beds, sipping brandy Maria had brought, eating nuts and dried fruit I’d brought, reading poetry to each other. It was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’d ever eaten.

In the morning, all was calm and sweet smelling. While Maria slept, I put on my bathing suit and walked down to the beach. The sun was warming, the water cool. I danced in the waves as they reached the shore. Grateful. At peace.

Was there a time when you unexpectedly broke tradition? What was that like?

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If you'd like to read another story about my dear friend Maria, I invite you to read "The Comfort of Wolves".