It starts about 9:45a – the tradition of watching for the Koetting cousins. They arrive in several cars now. Four generations of people range from 80 years to a few months old. A sixty-one-year tradition is unfolding again.
It all started in 1961 when my grandma invited her nephew, Charlie, to Thanksgiving in Bonnots Mill, MO. His parents had moved to California that year, leaving him alone in St. Louis, where he attended seminary. The following year he came to Thanksgiving dinner with his girlfriend, Mary (seminary didn’t work out). In 1963, he and Mary attended Thanksgiving as husband and wife. In 1964, they brought their daughter. Now, their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren drive in for Thanksgiving with the Haslags.
Thanksgiving 2017 in front of the family home built by Ferdinand Meyer, our common ancestor.
From that first Thanksgiving with just the one Koetting cousin (Charlie) until 2019 (a 58-year tradition), we gathered at the family home built in 1908 by Ferdinand Meyer. This is the same home my grandma and Charlie’s mom were raised in – the house their father (Ferd) built for his family. Since the family home sold in 2020, we have gathered for breakfast at my aunt and uncle’s and then transitioned to my cousins’ house across the street for dinner. A seismic shift in our Thanksgiving tradition.
Breakfast is about 10:30a – sausage, milk gravy, biscuits, pancakes, eggs, fruit, tapioca, orange juice, mimosas. It’s a grab-and-get house; if you don’t grab, you don’t get. There is also so much food that if you walk away hungry, it’s your own fault.
After everyone fills their plates and has a seat, we share what we are thankful for…with four exceptions:
- You can’t say you are grateful for your spouse.
- You can’t say you are thankful for Bonnots Mill.
- You can’t say you are grateful for the hosts.
- You can’t repeat something someone else has already said.
We all agree we are thankful for these items. We have practiced this tradition for more than 20 years.
After breakfast and dishes, groups visit, swap good book titles, and let the meal digest. Eventually, most of us take a walk to visit the cemetery and remember those who used to join us for this yearly event. My grandparents (the Koetting cousins’ aunt and uncle), my great grandma Haslag, Aunt Jo and Uncle Al, Charlie (the nephew my grandma first invited), and my Uncle Willie reside here now. Other family who once attended Thanksgiving in Bonnots are buried elsewhere. Almost as many family members have shuffled off this mortal tradition as have joined it in the past 61 years.
RIGHT: Charlie and Willie, at rest as family and neighbors.
The afternoon brings snacks, football, whiskey slush, and target practice in the pasture. It’s a right of passage to partake in the whiskey slush. Twenty-one complete trips around the sun are all it takes to earn a glass. I am now the maker of the whiskey slush, taking over for Willie, who pick-up the tradition from his day (my grandfather). The tradition of sweet rolls with breakfast and homemade egg nog faded away this year. The cousin who contributed these is slowing down and can’t bring them anymore. These shifts in our Thanksgiving tradition are small and occur all the time. We also rode horses (when the family still had horses) and at sauerkraut and sausage at dinner, until one year, we didn’t. The impact of these small changes full impact is recognized once someone looks back and takes stock.
