I grew up in suburban Washington D.C., in Maryland. Thanksgivings were comfortably predictable. The warm smell of a turkey roasting in the oven, crisp fall air, leaves on the ground, and then the gathering of everyone around the table. My mother’s menu was fairly static over the years. We liked our sweet potatoes whole and candied, our cranberry sauce straight out of the can, our gravy thick and smooth, our pies and breads delicious.
As our family expanded through marriages, and eventually grandchildren, we outgrew the dining room. My father set up large folding tables in a U-shape in the family room, and all of us gathered there in front of a warm and fragrant fire. We enjoyed good food and lots of laughter, for the Bradleys were all great storytellers.
The year 1977, however, brought big changes for my husband and me. In April of that year I found out I was pregnant with our first child. On that very same day, Larry found out he’d been accepted by the American Film Institute as a directing fellow. His dream was to direct Hollywood films. Mine was to raise children and dogs.
So in September of that year, with me seven months pregnant, we loaded our two golden retrievers into the back of our station wagon, and all our “necessary goods” into a 12-foot trailer, and set off for California. After a couple of mishaps we arrived in L.A. and eventually found a small house to rent. It was half a block from Beverly Hills, near the Doheny mansion, where Larry’s AFI classes would be held.
We knew no one on the West Coast except his aunt and uncle in Sacramento, eight hours away. We were oddities among the film students because we’d been married “so long” (seven years at that time) and had a child on the way.
I had never lived anywhere other than Maryland. In my mind, in California the ocean was on “the wrong side”–to the west rather than to the east. And the “seasons” were strange. There was a wet season and a dry season. Sixty-degree weather brought out Californians’ winter coats. And rain was a reason to stay home.
By November, we were adjusting. Larry was learning from super interesting people like Charlton Heston and Mel Brooks. I’d found a new ob/gyn and a few new bookstores. But then, Thanksgiving loomed on the horizon. The pull of home and tradition was strong.
We couldn’t afford the time or the money to fly home. Plus, I was too close to my Dec. 20 due date to make the trip. But we wanted to celebrate the holiday even if it was just the two of us. What to do?
When in California, I thought, make it a California Thanksgiving.
So I cooked all the usual foods: turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, and pumpkin pie. I tucked everything into containers and the gravy into a Thermos. We collected paper plates and napkins, drinks and silverware. And Larry and I drove to Santa Monica beach, just twenty minutes from our little home.
We were nearly the only ones there. It was 83 degrees. We spread out our blanket on the sand and unpacked our picnic. And there, under a beautiful blue sky, with the Pacific rolling in, Larry and I had a beautiful California Thanksgiving.
I must say, I’d never had Thanksgiving on the beach back East!
Two weeks later, our son was born–another California blessing.
In every season of every year, in every circumstance, there is something for which to be thankful. I was elated in 1981 when we moved back east, but I’m grateful for the memories of that California Thanksgiving.