Thanksgiving Belongs to Us

What is Experiential Hospitality with Isaac French?

This is the audio version of my weekly newsletter, Experiential Hospitality, where I share stories and insights to help you craft unforgettable spaces and experiences through design & hospitality.

Thanksgiving belongs to us.

Thanksgiving has always
been my favorite holiday.

There's just something about that
Thursday in late November that

always warms my heart and memory
like nothing else quite does.

It falls at the hinge point of the
year after the pristine beauty of

Autumn, but before winter descends.

Cradled in that gentle in between where
time slows and reflection feels natural.

And that's saying a lot coming from me
because Thanksgiving in our family and

community probably looks very different
than most for months leading up to it.

We've all been working around the clock
preparing for our annual community

festival, which begins the very next day.

After Thanksgiving dinner, we walked
the grounds, tents and pavilions

glowing beneath a starlet sky
tables filled with handmade crafts.

People spent all year creating
friends, preparing gourmet food from

every corner of the world in kitchens
scattered throughout the fairgrounds.

The Heritage Center stage, mostly empty.

Saved for a couple musicians
practicing last minute.

Everyone's ready for the 10 to 20,000
folks who will show up the next two days.

It's impossible to do the event
justice through any description.

You have to experience it, and we
love sharing our life with the world.

I know some of you will be there
and I can't wait to see you.

Growing up.

My cousins would always travel
down from DFW, and my grandparents

would come over from their farm
a few minutes down the road.

We'd gather round our massive wood table.

My dad would bless the food, and
then we'd indulge roasted Turkey

gravy, mashed potatoes, green bean
casserole, all kinds of salads, and

at least three types of cranberries,
candied with cream and jelly style.

Martin Nelly's sparkling apple juice to
drink, which was a huge treat for us kids.

After dinner, my grandpa, Byron would
gather us boys in our bedroom and tell

a story, a tale that stretched year to
year, always unfolding, always unfinished.

I don't remember all the details, only
the feeling, his calm, deliberate voice,

the pauses between words, widening,
sentences, softening, and then silence.

Papa wake up, one of us would
chide and the story would continue

a little longer, at least.

Eventually, the Turkey would do its
job and we'd all drift off Later.

We'd wake up to pecan apple and
pumpkin pies made by my grandmother,

mom and sister, waiting for us.

In later years.

We moved to Idaho and Thanksgiving took
on a different rhythm, cold and rainy.

I love that weather.

The house was glowing and warm.

A hot fire crackling in the soapstone
wood stove on the old brick hearth.

My older brothers married one
by one and started families.

Our table kept stretching longer
and longer, and after dinner,

I'd bundle up and wander into
the forest behind the house.

I didn't really intend to shoot any deer.

I just loved the quiet, the
chilled fog, the stillness.

And then mosey back home just
as the last light was dying out

where dessert and dominoes waited.

When I married Helen and moved back
to Texas, I learned Thanksgiving

dinner could somehow get even bigger.

Her mom is one of 10, and the extended
family includes over 60 cousins.

Everyone piles into her uncle's home.

All the rooms fill up.

50 conversations all at once.

The smell of three types of
Turkey, smoked, roasted, and

fried, making all our mouths water.

And there was the year I spent
Thanksgiving flat in the hospital bed

with a broken pelvis after falling during
the construction of Live Oak Lake, a 30

pound weight chained to my leg, muscles
and traction while I waited for surgery.

A steady stream of friends and
family kept me company all day.

The traditions, the tables, the memories.

I love all of them deeply.

Maybe what I love the most is that
Thanksgiving still belongs to us,

families and friends, not brands.

Ultimately, it's about giving thanks.

What a gift to be able to give thanks.

I don't do it enough, but just writing
this out can help me change that.

I'm thankful for the best
relationships in the world.

A life of meaning.

And for each of you reading happy
Thanksgiving everyone, even the

non-Americans, not celebrating.