During our first winter together, my husband and I commiserated about February. We both slogged through each cold day. He calls February the longest month of the year.

But now February feels too short to me.

Thanksgiving in February, the name of this blog, is an actual, annual celebration of family, healing, peace and gratitude that has reversed my experience of February. In four short days, we’ll serve a full traditional Thanksgiving dinner to about 30 people.

I’m excited about this little echo of the holidays, and all it represents. Here’s the “deep-dive” story about that.

I’m ready to put the tunes on and start baking pies, and shop for red foil hearts — because at Thanksgiving in February, y’all, we MUST have lots of red foil hearts. And chocolate. Yesssssss.

At Thanksgiving in February, y’all, we MUST have lots of red foil hearts. And chocolate. Yesssssss.

For lots of us, especially in the north, February is a month we endure. Snow, ice, cold, slush and shoveling. And more shoveling. The cold and flu viruses that suck your energy for weeks. 

The relentless cough that steals the sleep you so desperately need.

And what about Valentine’s Day for people who are alone and don’t want to be? Or those suffering a breakup or broken heart? Dreadful.

The singer-songwriter Dar Williams nails the dangerous depth of these frozen, dark days in her song February — with a story about how this month erases her memory of plants, of anything green and growing, and becoming the final straw that broke a strained relationship.

It’s a rough month. Some of us are hanging on by our fingernails. X-ing the days off the calendar, one by one.

Counting down until spring. 

Some of us rejoice in the day pitchers and catchers on our favorite baseball teams report to spring training. We made it this far. Spring can’t be that far away.

Some of us poke tomato seeds into soil medium under the grow lights, salivating at the thought of biting into that sweet, home-grown tomato. (Yes, dear friends, it’s time to start the tomatoes.)

Me too. Been there. Done that. 

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Then, bit by bit, my life changed and now February is a completely different, joyful experience for me.

I still get grumpy, especially in January. But when Feb. 1 arrives, I’m relieved. Lighter.

For many years, I’ve mulled over so many meanings of Thanksgiving in February that I started a blog about gratitude. Here’s the whole story.

Hosting this annual meal, telling the story of the first one and prepping the stories for this blog on gratitude have all brought me tremendous joy. Remembering my Dad’s love — even though I still feel those sharp stabs of missing him — also brings me great joy, as does my effort to spread that love and joy.

I’m telling you — plunking a big turkey dinner with all of the fixings into the middle of February completely turned this month around for me. 

Healing leads to more healing. Love leads to more love. Gratitude to more gratitude, to deeper love and brighter light.

In 2012, when February came around, I had the good fortune to be in love with the man who is now my husband — enjoying his warmth — quite literally as he keeps the woodstove cranking and keeps us toasty. 

Great love elevates everything. Even the February slog.

That February, my husband met my Dad and his long-time girlfriend, Stephanie, for the first time at our family’s third annual Thanksgiving in February dinner at Dad and Stephanie’s house. He met my stepmom that night, too. 

And once again, I was a nervous wreck. If memory serves, on the way there I took the wrong ramp for I-80 out of central Pennsylvania and headed toward New Jersey instead of Ohio. Anxiety!

Like the first one, all went smoothly during that dinner in 2012.

By the next February, my Dad was gone — almost exactly six months after his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer the Monday after Father’s Day. I was exhausted, in the depths of raw grief and once again willing myself through each day. No energy to cook a big turkey.

The next year, my kind, wise, follow-through husband and I planned our own Thanksgiving in February dinner. We wondered if anyone would come. 

They did. Few even know the whole story. 

That’s OK. 

There’s something about that reprieve from the throes of February. Whatever piece our guests celebrate, people seem to enjoy this dinner — whether for them it’s about gratitude, family, love, healing, forgiveness, defying death, hot turkey and gravy, chocolate, simple fellowship, or just feels good.

The first year, we jammed 20-some into our dining room and the next year, moved the dinner to “camp” — the hunting lodge owned and maintained by the hunting club where four generations of my husband’s family are members. 

Now, we have to be careful about numbers, as we max out at 35 people.

Maybe we’ll outgrow camp. 

Or host a community version in the church hall. Or spark other people to host their own Thanksgiving in February. I dream about people running with this idea and making it their own family tradition. Wouldn’t that be cool?

But my point is NOT that YOU have to host a full turkey dinner to enjoy February. It’s not for everyone. It’s a lot of work. 

My point: Try gratitude. Not just when everything is sunny, or abundant. Give it a shot in the bleak times, too, when everything around us seems dead. (It’s not).

We forget green is even there under all that snow. (It is.)

Do what’s joyful for you — whatever that may be. This is absolutely the month to celebrate music. (Hello Grammys! Wasn’t Diana Ross absolutely fabulous?!) 

And celebrate chocolate and love in all of its beautiful forms. And by all means start those tomatoes. It’s time. 

Just to remind us all: So much green and new growth, all the colors, are all still there, very much alive and awaiting the warmth and daylight to burst forth. 

One way or another, the spring always comes. Promise.

I’m glad you’re here. I wish you love, peace — and gratitude. Celebrate it some how, some way. Be well and take good care.

I’m off to make pies and round up some red foil hearts!

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