stuffing and family good cheer. After reaching his quota of pats
on the head from old maiden aunts and exclamations of “My,
how big you’re getting!” from other well-meaning relations, he
put on his coat and escaped to the rolling hills out behind the
house. He had not been to Grandma’s in a long time, and had
forgotten how much fun it was to roam the fields and make up
adventures that grown-ups would never understand.
He had, also, forgotten about the ominous dark building at the
very top of the tallest hill, which he imagined to be the ship of a
seafaring explorer tossing upon the waves. Sometimes the clang
of a bell would echo across the glen that separated the imaginary
ship from the imaginary shore on which he stood. Cupping his
hands around his eyes as if peering through binoculars, Randy
focused on the double arched doors at the front of the structure
and tried to get a clearer view. Maybe he could catch a glimpse
of the captain or see if the crew was permitted Thanksgiving
rations as they tirelessly manned the sails.
All of a sudden, one of the doors swung open, and out
marched a group of unusual-looking people dressed in black
bonnets, starched white collars, and long dark robes. Randy was
shocked! He never really expected to see anyone—it was just
pretend. But the whole procession was now headed precisely in
his direction! He turned quickly and stumbled down the hill.
“Mama, Mama, the Pilgrims are coming, the Pilgrims are
coming!” he shouted as he ran.
He burst into the house.
“What’s the matter?” his mother asked with a concerned
voice and a curious look.
“The Pilgrims are coming, Mama!” repeated little Randy.
She put her arm over his shoulder and hurried to the
window. They parted the curtains just in time to see a group
of nuns from the abbey on the hill passing by on their afterdinner
constitutional.
Randy is Vigi’s kid brother, and The Pilgrim Story is one of
her favorite Thanksgiving memories from childhood. He was
only three or four at the time and today sports more than a bit
of gray around the gills, like so many of us … but it’s the family
times that offer the most vivid memories of this festive holiday.
There are, on the other hand, those downers who prefer to
stir politics into the stuffing or even rehash the atrocities
purportedly committed as settlers moved west. Me? I wasn’t
around back then to harm anyone. The only atrocity I ever
committed on Thanksgiving involves turkey, stuffing, two
kinds of potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a few notches let out in
my belt to make room for Vigi’s fresh-baked lemon meringue,
pumpkin, and apple pies. It’s a celebration of life and plenty—a
purely American holiday made for gatherings with family and
friends. It’s also a time for reflection and for gratitude.
I live in a terrific home sharing a wonderful life with an
incredible lady. While we’ve had some rough patches, and each
of us has slipped a few times down a health-threatening slope,
we’re here to talk about it. I’ve known the joy of children, the
sweet smell of success, and bounced back from the bitter taste
of failure. I have good friends. I may not be wealthy, but I am
rich. I have no regrets.
On Thanksgiving I choose to celebrate and give thanks for
these things, and for being blessed with more than any man
has a right to. If anyone wants to complain about controversial
matters that have been rewritten a thousand times—and
probably never once accurately—the best I can do is point
him toward the window and tell him to keep watch for the
Pilgrims … but first, please pass the gravy
Recent Comments