When I first married a hundred years ago, it was understood that every Christmas morning we would migrate to my husband’s grandmother’s home for a breakfast feast shared with everyone else in the family. Eventually that meant getting up earlier than usual and dragging the kids away from their latest surprises from Santa. It also meant I spent the rest of the day miserably full, desperately in need of a nap, and smelling of country ham and bacon.
I absolutely loved those mornings surrounded by family and all the ham biscuits I could eat. But after a while, her small kitchen became crowded, and her age made it more difficult to cook for the ever-expanding hoard that descended upon her. So, despite her misgivings, the annual feast moved next door to my in-laws’ house, with my father-in-law manning the stove while my grandmother-in-law assisted as best she could. The torch had passed from one generation to the next.
Eventually, Christmas breakfast became a thing of the past. Family members scattered. Age interfered. When our last grandchild was old enough to understand and appreciate the arrival of the jolly ole’ elf, our daughter began cooking Christmas breakfast and inviting us to eat so Malcolm could show us what Santa brought. Once more, with a few alterations, the torch had again passed from one generation to the next.
The process repeated itself with most holiday celebrations, the last time being this past New Year’s Day. For as long as I can remember, I have cooked the traditional black-eyed peas with hog jowl and all the trimmings, and our children and eventually their families would come to eat and celebrate the beginning of another year. Or the passing of the previous one, whichever seemed more appropriate. But over time, that gathering became more difficult. My son and his family moved two hours away and, coming on the heels of Christmas and right before two literal back-to-back birthdays, the trips to our house became harder. This year my daughter-in-law suggested (perhaps half jokingly?) that the Savannah side of the family drive to Shelby County to celebrate. We could even throw in a slightly early birthday party and kill two birds with one trip. Later, when I asked if she really meant that, and she assured me she did, it was decided. We would gather at their home, and she would be preparing the meal. I just had to bring the hog jowl. As we started to head for home after a lovely evening which I got to spend visiting and eating (instead of cooking and cleaning), we collectively decided this needed to be a thing for all future New Year’s gatherings.
Once again, the torch has been passed. And I’m okay with that.
As the generations come and go, the traditions we’ve created and continue to honor are passed down from one to the next. And hopefully, as those torches are passed, they’ll be accompanied by the stories of those who created them, connecting our past to our present . . . reminding us of who we really are and all those who came before.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
