A lot of folks who have read this far are probably saying to themselves about now, "Why is he rambling on about gratitude now? That was last month."
I don't agree.
Thanksgiving I always think about Indians. How lousy they must feel, deep down, no matter how well assimilated they might be. This was all theirs: pristine forests, clear waters and, except for a few really aggressive tribes, almost enough room for everybody.
And then came the Puritans, the Pilgrims and the folks down Virginia way who brought us slavery.
I am a Baby Boomer American who served semi-honorably in this country's armed forces during the Vietnam era. My ex-wife was an African-American whose father fought in World War II. My kids were raised understanding that flawed as this place was, and is (Iraq, 60 million without health insurance, unchecked corporate greed), it is where we live and who we are.
So ... I'm grateful now instead of the end of November.
My mother and I fought a lot when we were younger, but since I moved west 25 years ago, we first learned to coexist and then learned to accept and enjoy each other. I relish my annual trips back to see her, and we never miss our weekly, hourlong phone confabs. I am very grateful that at this writing my mother, 89 years young, is still taking her morning walks, volunteering at the local hospital, reading good books - she just finished Elie Wiesel's harrowing tale of Nazi Germany, "Night" - and drinking her red wine and playing cards with those friends of hers who are also still thriving.
My new job, working with folks suffering from Alzheimer's, many of them years younger than my mom, has reminded me how fragile life is, and how big a part luck, good and bad, plays in our lives.
My younger daughter is in grad school at U Dub, and my elder daughter is looking for a job - she's a very recent victim of downsizing - but both of them seem healthy and in good spirits. Both of my 11-year-old grandsons are in a frenzy; however much religious folk bemoan the commercialism of Xmas, the kids are for it. Remembering how awful I felt when my maiden aunts and grandparents flogged me with reindeer sweaters, I give the little boys cash, wads of dollar bills. My daughters don't totally approve, but the less politic of the two boys told me my present is his annual favorite. "I love counting money," the future Silas Marner said.
I have always been blessed with the gift of friendship. Like Dr. Swift, I believe man in the collective is a horror - murders, wars, gluttony, greed, nationalism, stock car racing - but individually people can be a wonderful boon.
I still arrange the annual Saturday night dinner four or five of us have been going on since my return from Hawaii, and I still have my weekly lunch with the editor of this paper, also a good friend.
After only three years of steady play, I am breaking 100 most days on the golf course and am thankful I was finally ready to embrace another sport wholeheartedly. In my 20s and 30s I hoped, often the only white boy on a variety of inner-city courts in southern Ohio. But knee surgeries (two) and the general attrition of marriage, kids and full-time work turned me from a player into a sadly typical, stay-outside-and-jump-shoot baler. Soccer wasn't bad, but I started too late to be anything but a goalie, and a detached biceps took care of that. I'd tried golf before, but this time I was finally ready. Whenever I have an extra hour I now go up to Interbay, not down to McHugh's or the Mecca.
I have a lot to be thankful for, and unless you voted for Bush twice (I'll give you the first time), I hope you do, too.
[[In-content Ad]]