In my youth, Thanksgiving meant a 50-mile drive “up to the country,” where Grandma, her daughters and her daughters-in-law would prepare and assemble a sumptuous feast for about 30 family members and friends. At the same time, Grandpa, attired in a headdress and smoking his “peace pipe” outside a teepee he had fashioned in the driveway, occupied most or all of his 17 grandchildren by pouring them small paper cups of “fire water,” which was in reality cider from a local orchard.
When Grandma deemed the turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, onions, fresh vegetable platter, and turnip (generally one was enough) ready, the adult males put down their beers, the boys suspended their football game, the female grandchildren stopped whatever they were doing (we boys never knew nor cared what it was) and everyone headed to one of the three or four makeshift tables covering almost every square inch of floor space in my grandparents’ modest home. After someone said grace, we’d eat, visit and savor our extended family on what was in retrospect a truly magical day. Later, we’d dig into the apple, pumpkin, mince and blueberry pies that constituted Round Two.
After that, my father and whichever uncles weren’t paralyzed by gluttony would gather the kids and lead us on a brisk walk up the local country roads to a natural spring about a mile away while the ladies took on the massive job of clearing the table, scraping plates, storing leftovers, and washing pots, pans and dishes. Those not walking or cleaning staked out places in front of the TV and watched the Detroit Lions and their equally muddy opponents pound each other in front of thousands of chilled fans on what was left of the grass at Tiger Stadium. Two hours later, they’d awaken to the Dallas Cowboys playing somebody on the Cotton Bowl’s natural turf, and shortly thereafter, they’d struggle up off the couch to sample the turkey soup and sandwiches Grandma and her tireless army of assistants had prepared while their spouses and offspring were walking and/or snoozing.
A lot has changed since those idyllic days, and mostly for the better. Meal preparation is no longer a job exclusive to females, nor is after-dinner cleanup. Today dressing up as a stereotypical “Native American” and handing out “fire water” might be considered a tad insensitive. And while the Lions, Cowboys and their equally massive National Football League contemporaries still concuss one another for our entertainment on national TV, they now do so in clean uniforms on artificial turf inside climate-controlled facilities named for some corporate giant able and willing to pay through the nose for it. These arenas protect the players and fans from not only the elements, but from the 95 percent of the population not sufficiently privileged to afford tickets to the spectacle, a state of affairs which the other 5 percent probably considers progress.
But with the passage of time comes a different type of natural evolution. Family Thanksgivings like the ones we had as kids are a thing of the past. Both my parents and nearly all of their contemporaries are gone; my grandparents’ generation is but a memory. My siblings and cousins live hours or worlds away, and most have spawned families of their own; in fact, two cousins are grandparents themselves. But for what it’s worth, all 17 of Ed and Mary Spaine’s grandchildren are still walking the Earth, which in and of itself is reason enough for all of us to give thanks.
Very few nations formally celebrate a holiday to formally show gratitude for all of their blessings. That’s surprising. Or then again, maybe it isn’t.
Earlier this month, a powerful typhoon tore through the Philippines, killing more than 5,000 people and leaving nearly two million more homeless. Last year’s South American rainy season caused severe floods in impoverished areas in Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia, Paraguay, Brazil and Colombia. Millions of West Africans are at risk of starvation due to ongoing famine in that region, the result of low rainfall, too many insects and a dearth of health care. Bombs planted by fanatical individuals hoping to impose their beliefs on others regularly kill innocent people in Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq, despite semi-regular interventions from outsiders with nominal good intentions. And terrorist attacks are on the rise in Europe as well.
Americans formally give thanks every year on the fourth Thursday in November. Canadians observe their version of the holiday on October’s second Monday. But neither date is wholly appropriate.
If North Americans would thoughtfully contemplate the possibility of living elsewhere and were properly grateful for what we’ve got, we’d realize that for us, every day ought to be considered Thanksgiving.
— Andy Young teaches at a local high school. After Thanksgiving dinner this year, he plans to pass on the Lions and the Cowboys in order to take a brisk and soul-cleansing walk.
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