Kendra Morrill

A few months after my grandmother died in 2004, her three children and three grandchildren gathered to dispose of her possessions and prepare to sell her house. We were determined not to repeat what had happened after Grammy’s oldest brother had died, when Grammy and three of her six sisters stopped speaking to each other for years after they fought over how to divide his property. So, we came up with a plan. 

Grammy’s children would split the house proceeds equally. Same with the modest bank account and wads of cash that we found under her mattress, except that we grandchildren would receive a portion, also shared equally.

For the hard part – dividing up roomfuls of stuff – we agreed that we would go room by room and, in order of age, take turns choosing an item from that room until every item was spoken for or there were no items left that anyone wanted.

When we got to the dining room, I knew what I wanted most of all – the speckled pink ceramic gravy boat. For over 50 years, that pink gravy boat sat on my grandparents’ dining room table at every single Sunday and holiday dinner at which meat and gravy were served, which I suspect was every one of them.

We each took something from the dining room that reminded us of our meals together, and I’m sure everyone was thinking what I was:  We’ll never be able to recreate those meals, in that dining room, again, but we’ll always have some part of them, and the people we shared them with, with us.

This Thanksgiving, because of the pandemic, it will be just my husband, two sons, and I sitting down together at our dining room table. But the speckled pink gravy boat will be there. And so will my grandmother and grandfather and every other family member who shared in those dinners at my grandparents’ table. And for that, I’m grateful.