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 22, 2022

Contemplations on the Passing of a Knee

 

Born March 4, 1942 --- Died November 4, 2022 

* * * 

It was just another average day when it passed. There were no farewells, the world remained in its orbit and not even a ho hum was heard. Such is the fate of an over-used knee.

It knew its time was up. It had run its course. It took the departure like a man, like the 80-year-old it was. We had many discussions on the timing. It pretty much came down to what the orthopedists always say: “When it’s time, you’ll know.” It was time.

The Doctor comes by the preop room where it lies quietly, sedated and ready for its transition.

“Doc, will it be a painful passing?” I ask.

“No pain, I promise. We have elixirs to insure against it. All euthanasia is efficient and painless.”

I ask the knee again. Are you ready?  Its response was a silent but peaceful acquiescence. I felt it quiver in its socket.

A little later I wake up, wondering if I had been dreaming. A haze of anesthesia lingers like a last-night hangover from being over smoked in an opium den. I vaguely remember why I’m here. It slowly dawns on me that I’m missing an integral body part, its space filled by some alien creature of titanium and plastic.  

The doctor comes by. “Was its passing painless?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s gone. Say hello to your new knee.” I’m left alone to ponder the loss.

What is the proper way to say goodbye to such a loyal friend as the knee? Is a lengthy obituary needed?  Or perhaps compose a requiem to mourn its demise? I lie there trying to capture the vagrant thoughts that keep circling in my mind like a pack of curious buzzards.

A requiem, yes, that’s the way. But on second thought, requiems are like dirges, filled with ponderously weighty minor notes, somber notes played on organs and bagpipes following a solemn, slow-moving cortege.

Oh, no, that’s not appropriate for this knee. It was no average knee; it was a bigger-than-life knee, one that despised ease and chewed on challenges. It was a knee hell-bent to push life to its extremities, a knee living on the edge, every day a new adventure.

Its music needs major notes, notes of C and G, notes of screaming guitar strings, pounding piano keys, drums and cymbals with a heartbeat to match a life lived to its limits. That’s the music of this knee.

It ran with Mick, Billy, Berry, Jerry, Willie and Waylon. Notes like itself, notes that ran with it across the years and miles of streets, ultra-marathons, mountain trails of America, Alaskan tundra and sandy beaches. It tested Death Valley, the White Sands, the Athens coliseum, The Great Wall of China. It thrived on a running tempo that matched its soul, its purpose and its life.

But now it’s gone, its purpose fulfilled. Just another joint heading to the bone pile to be unceremoniously incinerated for fertilizer. No honor, no cheering crowd, no laurel wreaths, no trophies. Such a vainglorious departure for such an over-achieving and faithful appendage. 

Like all the aged, it grew tired of the pills, the shots, the braces, the ice and the pain. It was weary of the temporary palliatives, the promised cures, the worthless panaceas. It is in a better place now.

The doctor comes by again. I ask, “Hey, doc, will I suffer a sort of post-partum, separation anxiety now?”

“Not likely, but you will miss it for some time. You’ll remember the good old days. You will likely have many painful days and nights ahead, and the process of separation will sometimes bring you to tears. But be of good cheer…the old knee is happy now. And you’ll get used to its replacement.”

This all sounds somewhat metaphoric, but I’m in no mood currently to think metaphorically. It’s hard enough to lose a good friend, but it’s a good time to celebrate the good years we had, the exhilarating moments and the achievements of fifty-plus years of running.

                                                 * * *

In times like this we might wonder, “Will the new be superior to the old?” Is it ever? In the end, this is a question you’ll have to ask your own Lazarus.

Were there final last words?  I think I heard it whisper on the way out, “Keep running."

 

Bud Hearn

November 16, 2022