Recollections of Thanksgiving

“There’s nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor…that it was from the hand of God.” Ecclesiastes 2:24

Thanksgiving…the very concept conjures up evocative nostalgia. A silent bell tolls in our hearts, reviving the infused pilgrim spirit inherited from the Plymouth Plantation. Tradition is dusted off and Norman Rockwell is resurrected in anticipation of another year of family togetherness.

The vast diaspora will soon begin, that obligatory migration for millions of extended families making their pilgrimage. Expressways and airports will be clogged, folks in a hurry, tempers short, children exhausted, courtesies abandoned. With luck they will arrive, this swarm of family locusts, descending on the old home place with one thought in mind: The Thanksgiving Dinner!

The year’s final harvest is in. Not that most have any sweat equity in it. Why toil? Now it’s too easy to purchase the fruits of another’s labor. In fact, harvests today bear little resemblance to harvests of a bygone era. Few remain who recall the days when mules were tractors, the days of smokehouse hams and sausages, hog-killings, of syrup-making, of pumpkin gathering and sweet potato banks…days when the air was crisp, the grass frosty…days before irrigation, genetic seed engineering and perennially imported harvests.

Former harvests were unpredictable, subject to the vicissitudes of nature and insects, and rife with the sweat of hard labor. In those days serious supplications were made for Divine favor, unlike the easy platitudes now uttered. Today the term “harvest” has lost its strength. Our hands, soft without blisters, give us away. Cash is our reaping scythe.

At the Plymouth Plantation, 1621, the harvest was hard-earned from the hardscrabble earth. The community pooled their resources and labor to eke out a living. “Thanksgiving” meant gratitude then! Plus, it was not secular like the multitude of pagan harvest festivals. It was a genuine thanksgiving to the Creator for the land’s bounty. Imagine yourself at this first Puritan Thanksgiving.

“Honey, get up, light the fire, get out of the kitchen and do your hunting thing... and don’t come back here without a turkey or smelling like beer,” the woman would say. “And on your way out shake the kids…I need more fire wood. Now!” Women ruled the roost then, as now, on Thanksgiving. Men fled from the kitchens.

Candles flickered in the homes of the small plantation as the day dawned and preparation was made for the harvest celebration. The community was alive with jubilation, and scents of cooking food wafted in the cold November air. Laughter echoed as men passed around jugs of cider by the village fires. Football had yet to be invented.

Even the indigenous savages arrived, bearing an abundance of turnips, corn and fish. By noon the village was assembled, thanks given to the Almighty for the bounty of another year, and the feast began. It lasted for days. Somehow feasts are more enjoyable with a crowd.

Yet most are indifferent to the idea of a communal Thanksgiving. Churches and charities do their best to feed the hungry, but it represents only the essence of the collective spirit. We’re a nation of individuals, gathering with friends and family in smaller assemblages. We remain segregated from the egalitarian life of our communities. As a consequence, we fail to reap their intrinsic strengths.

Notwithstanding, it remains a warm celebration of congeniality and reunion, and a time of remembrance. Yes, to remember the ‘old days,’ to remember the ones who have passed on, those who have moved on and those who remain. And a remembrance of happy times, to laugh, and maybe even cry a little.

Thanksgiving would be incomplete without the often comedic dysfunctional aspects of family homecomings. After a few days of ‘catching up,’ and with everyone sick of turkey and dressing, and often each other, the party breaks up and the crowd heads home.

With packed cars, abundant hugs and a few turkey sandwiches to go, the weary pilgrims depart and join the returning throngs, cursing the traffic and vowing never to do it again…until next year, that is.

Next year has now arrived, and the Tradition of Thanksgiving is revived in our hearts. We’ll celebrate another Thanksgiving Harvest in our Land of Freedom, a gift of Grace from the beneficent hand of God.

As you gather around your tables, remember to thank The Source of all blessings. And while you’re at it, remember to thank the turkey for giving its last, full measure of devotion!

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family.


Bud Hearn
November 23, 2016

Cleaning House

“There comes a time in a man’s life when he must take the bull by the tail and face the consequences.” W. C. Fields

**********

Seems like this is what Tuesday’s election results accomplished. So I decided to do likewise…clean out my office. I call the shredder.

My office has been a repository for paper for years. I’m a hoarder, can’t bear to pitch things. Might need it later. You know the disease.

Boxes of antique paper, yellowed with age and layered with dust, line the walls of the conference room. The history of my business life lies buried in those boxes. It’s hard for hoarders to cast themselves into a shredder.

True, the boxes may hold dark secrets, incriminating photographs or, as my attorney says, ‘evidence.’ Fortunately, whatever lies hidden in the boxes has either perished outright or succumbed to the statute of limitations.

Craig operates the shredder truck, a hulking, mobile metal contraption housing giant mechanical teeth that rip and tear paper to shreds. He finds me inside, sobbing, inconsolable at the thought of saying goodbye to my history.

“Hey, man, what’s with the tears, the pitiful laments?” He’s a practical sort of fellow, clearly insensitive to my condition.

“My life’s history is in these boxes, Craig. I’m having a wake in preparation for a funeral for myself.”

“Man up, you’re not alone. I see it often. What’s bothering you?”

I point to some boxes in the corner. “See those boxes? My mama and daddy are inside. All that’s left of them, some papers. How can I recycle them?”

He laughs. “Look at the big picture. They’ll be resurrected into some more paper in a few months, maybe a book, or magazine, perhaps a box. They’ll join a host of other people you’re shredding in these boxes. Be of good cheer.”

The thought is a cheerless one, but I see his point.

He continues philosophizing. “You know why it troubles folks to clean house?”

“Enlighten me, O sage,” I reply.

“Because all their useless fodder is the dead past, but yet it still lives on inside of them. It defines them. They drag it around like a bag of garbage, or they store it in boxes like you have. They just can’t shed the past.”

“That’s a strange way of looking at it, Craig. Were you once a hangman?”

He laughs. “Nah, but I think I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.”

“How about John Galt?” I ask.

“Maybe him, too. Billboards ask who he is. Makes me wonder who I am. I figure my job in heaven might be that of ridding people of the past. I feel good grinding their useless history into powder. Reminds me of what ‘forgiveness’ is all about.”

“’Heavenly shredders?’ Brother, that’s a real stretch.”

“Absolutely,” he says. “Listen, we go through life toting all this excess baggage of the past. No wonder so many people are beat down and depressed. All they need to do is call the ‘shredder angel,’ he’ll lighten the load. That’s how I see my job, helping people unload. And now I’m gonna help you, my friend.”

He empties the boxes, one at a time into a trash bin and weighs it. Then he connects it to a vertical conveyor belt which lifts it to an opening on top of the truck and dumps the contents. A loud crunching noise erupts from the shredder. He repeats the process.

With each box dumped I feel an exhilarating sense of freedom. The past is disappearing, right into the bowels of the truck, soon to be recycled into something else more useful. So simple, so easy, I wonder why I waited so long.

Soon all 457 pounds of irrelevance has disappeared, like it never was. The office is empty again. Space for more boxes. The empty ones litter the floor, ready for the dumpster.

I pay him. He hands me a Certificate of Destruction and Recycling, evidence of my redemption. As he drives away he shouts, “Don’t forget, you can call the shredder angel anytime. See you around.”

Imagine. Cleaning house is just a call away. If only we could believe it.


Bud Hearn
November 11, 2016