Thanksgiving…

—From CB—

Thursday we drove down to Santa Cruz for Thanksgiving. We, our son Eli and his wife and three in-laws. A good time was had by all, and a lot of food. Despite time taken to chew, conversation was non-stop: the trials of moving, calming the dog, Mark Twain and Tobias Wolff, circus skills, real estate, current cat behavior, Queen for a Day, Facebook gripes, the food, on and on. We crawled into bed, slept, got up this morning and ate more.

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I wasn’t celebrating the traditions of the day or the crimes of 10,000 years of worldwide madness. As a kid, of course I was taught the traditional story; that stood beside other things I was taught: the Trail of Tears, the displacements, the genocides—not in the detail I learned later, of course, but enough to make the Thanksgiving story stand out as one of the few holidays to celebrate something resembling peace. So what did I just celebrate? My thanks for the people around the table and for my life.

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I wonder if gratitude has become a four-letter word. Some time ago, I wrote “As soon as we’re prompted with ‘Now say thank you!’ we learn that it’s an obligation, a price to pay. So we learn to pay it with counterfeit bills.” It’s not something we’re good at. We learn to nurse as soon after birth as we can, and if we don’t get the nipple we raise hell. Much later, we try to remember Mothers Day and pick out a card to send. But we pay little mind to the nine months of pregnancy, the pangs of labor, the years of changing diapers, the worries of money, education, the times the kid got sick or in a fight, and on and on. We’re not instantly born with gratitude and it doesn’t seem teachable. so how does it come about?

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I don’t feel it often, except to specific people for specific stuff. Most often, it’s either something expressed to my mate or something I look at from memory, way long after I’m able to say express it directly. But even a post-mortem gratitude has its value. What’s the value? I think it’s in creating a bond. It’s in acknowledging that you needed Mama’s nipple to help construct you, and you needed lots of other folks along the way. Certainly that’s not all that’s needed. I don’t think Jeff Bezos would be wise to send a Hallmark card to his employees saying, “Thanks for making me rich.” Better working conditions might get a better reception. But the concept of the Self-Made Man has been a problem ever since Samson got a haircut.

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I can’t say that in sitting around the table I’m feeling “gratitude.” In fact, I’m just eating, and talking when my mouth isn’t full. I recall during my early teens when I went to church, that I discovered that if I shut my eyes and rolled my eyes upward, it made me feel very holy. In a way, I remember that fondly, though it didn’t last.

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It’s likely clear that I favor a celebration of Thanksgiving Day. I don’t connect with the argument that it hides or celebrates genocide, but certainly there’s no reason to celebrate anything unless you want to. For those who disagree, I would hope that you can establish a day of thanksgiving for what you have—even if it’s much less than what others have or what you deserve—and those who’ve helped you achieve it. And granted, that’s not easy. But Elizabeth and I each celebrate one another’s birthdays, though a birthday carries with it the certainty of a death.

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I recall once, with Elizabeth, being caught in a street celebration in the Trastevere section of Rome. Crowds roaming the streets, eating watermelon chunks and other street food, casting the debris over their shoulders—a crazy, messy evening. I had no idea what was being celebrated—maybe a saint or a war, and I’m glad I didn’t know—but I recall the joy of simple celebration, and that was sufficient.

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