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In other words...
Something Smells Fishy...
Thanksgiving is a compound word.
Thanks and giving with no space in between.
Cannot have one without the other, or so the story goes.
Oh, I know the story you all know. The one you
learned in a classroom long ago, while creating turkey placemats, and
turkey cards, and turkey this and turkey that. Perhaps even a Pilgrim’s
hat, for the centerpiece. On the table. The table where we gather, young
and old, hale and hearty, weak and frail, related distantly or
distantly relating. To give thanks. To be grateful for blessings
received.
A legendary celebration of folks grateful to be alive, to be in safe territory and to be well fed.
I smell fish.
The Pilgrims did eat fish and game, berries from
bushes and nuts gathered from trees. I doubt they had colorful crayola
colored crafty centerpieces. I don’t think they had green bean casserole
and oyster stuffing, or Aunt Hilda’s famous pinwheel cookies, or Uncle
Theo’s venison sausage patties, or Grandma Ethel’s cheesy potato
casserole topped with crumbled cornflakes and baked in a 350 degree oven
or until the top turns brown.
No. Don’t think so.
Nope. I don’t think they had commercials yammering
in their ears two weeks before the festival from Jimmy Joe John’s
Plumbing Service touting their much needed and highly regarded, before
the guests arrive Thanksgiving Special, a new disposal so the sink won’t
back up, and as an added bonus a certified crapper clapper guaranteed
to warranty a super flush every time. No embarrassing plumbing problems.
Be thankful.
Or the home repair specialists, ready to evacuate
your eaves, or shore up your foundation to keep the leaky squeaky rusty
dusty musty parts of your thankful house from spoiling the pleasure of
your thankfully squeaky, rusty, dusty, moldy oldie pests, uh, guests.
Ah and yes the consultants, we need those.
Clipboard in hand ready to assess the fraying edges of carpet, the
windows that are peeling and cracked, the dated 70’s kitchen, the
backsplash in need of an updo and the table set with mismatched chairs.
Click click click goes the pen, boxes checked on the sheet, the
consultant’s job now complete.
I smell fish.
It stinks in here. And the parade has just begun.
The dietitians ever thankful for arriving just in
time before I add salt to the potato water, regular, not sea salt, or
better no salt at all, and oops, the nut fanatics, the picky eaters, the
don’t let any of my food touch on the plate crazies, the vegans, the
animal rights advocates holding Tom the Turkey hostage, the Ding Dong
deniers, the food police sorting through bins on a warrantless search of
the premises for one single slip of the tongue, an unwashed finger
tasting the savory sweet potatoes before sprinkling on the tiny
marshmallows, oh my no not those. The cherry Jello with sliced bananas
banished. Empty calories. Wasted fat. Wasted fat?
It’s Not Really Butter is Better.
I have clean eaves. My house is newly carpeted, the
Feng Shui expert just left, the table is set with all the chairs
matching, the eaves are swept, the toilet flushed, the foundation
settled, and I am trying very hard to be thankful for the carrot stick
in my hand.
It is almost Thanksgiving.
The time for thanks.
The time for giving.
The guests have not arrived. The table, however, is
covered in place cards, politically correct placements of disparate
demeanors as far apart as possible, so much so that I had to add two
leaf extensions and the table now is so carefully arranged that a few
people will have to sit on the porch and shout to the hard of hearing
folks down in the basement.
Here I sit. So very close to Thanksgiving Eve, listening to the
Children’s Channel on the radio, a continuous loop of lullabies for
little ones poised between eyes closed and the coming of sleep.
I am not a regular subscriber to this station, but I babysat for my
grandson today and we listened to this as we read the same book over and
over and over as he nestled his head against my chest.
I can still feel the warmth of his tiny body
against mine. A mutual love fest and a simultaneous sense of security,
minus the beloved stuffed giraffe and the soft and silky nighty-night
blanket. Just us two. Making a silent pact of trust.
I, my eyes say, will give you a soft place to land.
I will give you my heart, his sleepy eyes reply.
Thanks.
And giving.
An exchange of hopefulness.
A promise made by both, to give and to receive.
I offer to you now, this gift of love. This promise
of safety. This safe place to land. For this is truly all we have to
offer as we sit across the table, friend or foe. A moment of quiet. A
taste of peace. What more can we offer one another? What else, dear
guests, can I place upon your plate except this guarantee that I am
here, and will never let you go without my hand at your back, my love
tucked up your sleeve and my whisper of reassurance in your ear?
Count upon your fingers. Count upon your toes.
Everyone a blessing is how the story goes.
Gathered at the table, hands folded in our prayer,
we offer up our thanks for the blessings we receive. For some, merely
the breath upon awakening and the start of the gift of an unexpected new
day. For others, the gift of an answered prayer. And for so many, a
peek through clenched fists at the headlines in the news, only to find
that the earth did indeed turn once more on its axis and we are still
here, still here together, landing on the same blank calendar page with
our pencils ready to write a new entry in our journals.
Today I...
Counting blessings and counting toes.
Thankfulness.
But lest we forget,
the giving is the gift.
The act of giving. Lovingly wrapped with tender
care, tied up with a bow, in a familiar child’s crayon scrawl, embossed
on a paper doily turkey gobbler, feathers pasted on one by one, random
colored shapes, that only a parent might recognize...to Momma with love,
for my Dad, to Grandma hugs and kisses, for Grandpa XXXOO...
Would that it was so easy...as easy as pie...a
slice and a scoop of ice cream on top. To be invited in to receive. To
give by bearing the fruits of our labor. I roast the turkey, you bring
the green beans. I butter the rolls, you roll out the cookie dough.
The sweet and savory smell of success.
Thanks and giving.
Thanksgiving.
I may lure you in with a carrot stick...
But I promise you...a feast.
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