Thanksgiving Day Parade, New York, 2007, Jonas Brothers
“Fire Dreams”
From Cornhuskers, Carl Sandburg
God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers,
God of all star-flung beaches of night sky,
I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: “Thanks, O God.”
I thank the Ineffable for the many fat, fabulous Brooklyn Thanksgivings. Ours were more-or-less traditional. As a child, the aunts cooked, the uncles ate. My grandmother had ten children who survived to maturity and each married someone of a different ethnicity. Our typical American turkey dinner always included sides of kielbasa sausage, lasagna, tabouli, kibbe, and other tempting savories and sweets. As a young married woman, the division of dutes was equally traditional. The men watched football, the kids watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade, and the women cooked. Planning and preparation always took at least a week, and the work of it always seemed pleasant and worthwhile.
Today, I am grateful for the company of my son and his wife, the joy of a collaboratively preparing the meal, and good wholesome food, more modest than the past and more than sufficient for the day.
Happy Thanksgiving!
