My family and I just had the last Thanksgiving we’ll ever share in the house where we currently live. We’ve resided in Auburn for the past eight years, but this summer, my parents will move to Lake Almanor, I’ll graduate and one of my sisters is getting a married. I’m considering a move to southern California after graduation, so I wanted this Thanksgiving to be worth remembering.

A happy image that will forever be pinned to my brain, I received first … well, second thing in the morning. As the dough for my famous cinnamon rolls rose, I was on my morning run on our rural road and passed a smiling old man getting his newspaper.

We waved to each other as he gyrated to the big band music blaring from his golf cart. I watched him against the backdrop of autumn colors and took a mental snapshot. I’m convinced he was the spirit of Thanksgiving, walking around in human form.

I actually made dinner this year because after 20 years of doing it, my mother was eager to get out of the job. Thanks to the Food Network, I’ve become quite an accomplished cook.

I told my mother I’d take care of the bird if she allowed me to prepare it any way I wanted. Feeling adventurous, I decided to make the herb brined turkey with pear gravy pictured on the Cover of Bon Appetit, a cooking magazine my grandmother subscribed me to.

I love telling people about the pear gravy part. Who’s heard of that? But look at the ingredients: pear juice, chicken broth, dark rum, turkey drippings and fat. It was great, and the compliments were even better.

Ultimately, the dinner was a success, but my Aunt Karen, Uncle Joe and grandmother not showing up due to the flu, ended up being a blessing in disguise. I undercooked the turkey by a half an hour for its first unveiling and I could have cracked under the pressure of a hungry crowd.

The day was built out of normal holiday memories: the golf cart driver, the Everybody Loves Raymond marathon that kept my father laughing for hours and my Uncle George telling us stories about Europeans who got buried alive. I’m typing this column as my family sits in front of Miracle on 34th Street, a movie we’ve watched on every Thanksgiving I can remember.

I think we hold on to such traditions because we believe we’ll relive the happy memories associated with them. But as I look around, no one is watching the movie.

My sister and future brother-in-law are asleep on the couch. My mother is doing laundry and my dad is in the bathroom.

The reality of memories is that they can’t be relived. You have to create new ones. If we turned our Thanksgiving into a Mexican fiesta and had a terrific time doing it, we’d probably be trying to relive those memories next year. As we all go our separate ways, only time will tell what holiday memories we’ll be trying to relive in years to come.