Comes again, the gorging time commonly called “Thanksgiving.” The pandemic has contributed to the wreck of the supply chain and some of us will be spending more on a fat turkey. Others of us — me! — will be basting the same Cornish hens that I have cooked since I have been single. I love me a good hen, and I’m glad that the two in my freezer were available when I needed to lay in stores in preparation for the feast. But there are reasons unrelated to the consumption of food that I am “giving thanks.”
I think that I have made it clear to the class that I have not allied myself with a particular religious philosophy. I confused my coworkers in St. Louis each Christmas season when I sent them all a poem by James Wright: “A Blessing.” Those who did not know me well assumed that my sending them a “blessing” was an acknowledgement of the religious connotation of the term; I was sending them a gift of a beautiful poem. I recently gave my niece a copy of that poem at her engagement party; I gave her fiancée a copy of Alan Dugan’s poem, “Love Song: I and Thou.” There are religious references in that poem, also. But as for thanks, there are these things:
My 17-year-old grandson is a fully licensed driver who is going to college and will major in engineering. He also intercepted one pass in each of six straight football games. My 13-year-old granddaughter calls me on FaceTime and plays her saxophone for me. The pandemic has restricted my travel to New Jersey, where they live, so my contacts with them have been electronic, but I am thankful that we have the technology for that contact.
I have reconnected with two friends from days gone by; one is recovering from a liver transplant and the other, colon cancer. My brief dance with deep vein thrombosis (DVT), while dangerous and potentially life-threatening, was mild in comparison to the trials my friends continue to endure. Another friend is hospitalized as I write this, borne down onto his back by the debilitating effects of a diabetic condition that is nibbling away at his body and the quality of his life. His family has rallied around him, and he knows that he is loved.
At a recent celebration for the anniversary of my favorite cider house, the head cider-maker introduced me to an employee I had never met. When the production facility was under the same roof as the tasting room, I got to see and meet the people who crafted the tasty beverage that I enjoy. The operation is carried out in two different places now, so I rarely see the people who produce the cider that I consume in the tasting room. I was honored to have been introduced to another person who labors — perhaps not by “singing light” — to grace me with cider. It is not always the “grand and glorious” things that we appreciate. An introduction can open the dam of joy and release the waters of thankfulness.
My youngest grandchild, my 3.6-year-old roommate, communicates her wants and needs and loves. She wants to walk with me to the Irvington Fountain so that we can play “hide and seek,” but along the way, say “Hi,” to the dog named “Doug” and the cat named “Street.” In the mornings at home, she needs to come downstairs to see me, and perhaps, when she is older, will be dancing at the foot of my bed just as her cousin did.
Hey: I got thanks.
cjon3acd@att.net