If everyone who’s said they’ll come comes today there will be 21 in our house, of all ages, an infusion of spirit that ought to see Mary, me, and O’en, the house’s everyday occupants, through most of the winter.
You might say well there’s Christmas too, but that treacly holiday, with its almost enforced obligatoriness, we try our best to duck, though, frankly, even though we’ve managed a couple of times in our lives, it’s hard to do.
Thanksgiving’s different. Your presence, not presents, is all that’s required. And, if you are of our family and are therefore genetically engineered to be optimistic, even in the teeth of the evidence, the chances are you’ll be of good cheer and that when it comes to bonhominy — a word I made up for the occasion — you’ll give it your absolute best.
Tom from New Hampshire will commiserate with me concerning the faineant Steelers, and I’ll say, anent the Patriots, his favorite team, and with a certain anticipatory delight, “Quoth the Ravens, nevermore.”
And maybe Kitty will add an impeach Melba to the list of her fine desserts. Her torte’s an absolute killer, but what the hell who cares about LDL on Thanksgiving.
I will give thanks for Mary, of course, bless her, even unto genuflection. And for Lamar Jackson. Gavin too, for he’s making the mashed potatoes, with heavy cream and all that, but what the LDL, it’s Thanksgiving.
I’ll make my margaritas — well, Alex Silva’s, if truth be told — and pass them around early on in the hopes that when it comes time nobody will give a damn if the turkey’s dry or the stuffing’s cold or the jokes are old.
There should be, if I’m counting correctly, four grandchildren — four of nine — indominatable spirits all, and my prayer for them is that they thrive, and that there will be enough of the natural world left to sustain them as they grow.
And I also pray, happiness aside for the moment, that they’ll always be engaged in living. I would give thanks for that. Yes, I would give thanks for that this Thanksgiving.