Jerry Attkisson, far left, and Sylvia with her family at the annual Christmas feast, this one circa 1980. (Photo Courtesy of Jerry Attkisson)

Generally, I think of myself as someone who readily embraces change, eager to experience new things. Perhaps to a fault. This, despite having been married to my wife, Sylvia, for 39 years and having driven the same car and lived in the same house for over 30 years. (Two of the three have held up remarkably well – the house needs some work.)

As I write this, I am anticipating Christmas Day, when, for the 39th time, we will be having dinner at my mother-in-law’s house in Dunn, N.C., where Sylvia grew up.

Every year, the same menu has been served on the same fine china, crystal and silver – each piece located in exactly the same position on the table. This sits on the same freshly ironed, white damask tablecloth with the same matching napkins. Each of us will sit at the same place we have always sat. I have even said jokingly that the conversation has always been the same, too!

The fresh stewed and baked hen with crispy, thin squares of cornbread dressing made with miraculously few ingredients will be placed directly in front of my brother-in-law, R. Dennis (“Buddy”) Strickland Jr.

Buddy moved to the head of the table 13 years ago upon the death of Mr. Strickland Sr. Mrs. Strickland, whose beauty has carried down to her daughter and granddaughter, Tara, will be at the other end of the table presiding over the English peas and fluffy white rice. Seated to the left of my brother-in-law in the seat I have occupied all these years, I will be custodian of the pickled peaches. Next to me, Sylvia will begin to pass the giblet gravy complete with pieces of hard-boiled egg.

Next to Sylvia will be Tara and her husband Joel, along with their 20-month-old son, Tristan. Across the table, Buddy’s wife, Pam, son R. Dennis (“Robert”) III and his new bride Elisabeth will serve rolls and broccoli.

Each place setting will be flanked by sweet iced tea and a small mold of congealed cranberry salad topped with a touch of cream cheese and placed on a leaf of iceberg lettuce. For dessert there will be thin slices of Claxton fruitcake and homemade pecan pie with a dollop of whipped cream. This will be followed by Sanka with real coffee cream served in china cups with matching cream pitcher and sugar bowl. While the table has never changed, those seated around it have. Sylvia and Buddy’s grandparents have been gone for many years, replaced by Tara and Robert, and now their spouses and a very first grandchild. In an unspoken code of conduct, girlfriends, boyfriends and other guests are not invited. One can only earn a place at the table by birth or marriage. Since I first put my feet under the table, five generations have been a part of this occasion.

In truth, what started as a tradition has become a ritual, if not an obsession. A sense of anxiety develops even at the thought of what Christmas would be like without this gathering. This is a time not only to see and hear of changes to each of those present, it is a benchmark occasion against which we mark our own lives.

As the chef in my family, the day is approaching when I will be called upon to help prepare the meal. I would consider it a solemn duty to make the cornbread dressing just as it has been prepared all these years. I have been practicing on the side, but I still do not know how to create the magic from just biscuits and cornbread, a little celery and onion and the broth of a hen. I will persevere, since I do not intend to let any part of the tradition change or end.