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A Little Something For The Rest Of Us by Bob Church
I'll admit, Thanksgiving Day isn't as big a holiday as it once was, but to my way of thinking, it's every bit as special as it was when Mother and Uncle Earl were still alive. It signifies the pluralistic and symbiotic relationship we have with the land in a way that no other holiday does, not even Easter. It is The Little Holiday That Could with respect to Christmas, and as such, it holds a special place in my heart-a place I once mistakenly thought I could share with my closest friends and family. Well, I guess you all showed me. To each and every one of you, I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart: Thanks ever so much for blowing off my little annual Thanksgiving celebration and breaking Dotty's heart. Had you ingrates deigned to show up, you would have been treated to a thoughtful, fascinating oration on the holiday. I would have told you, in verse, of Thanksgiving Day's origins, how it began somewhere around Plymouth Rock or the Jamestown Colony area under the loving stewardship of our Pilgrim ancestors and some indians. I admit that maybe "Sacajawea in Chains" might never become the national treasure that I once hoped it would, but it still serves to enchant an audience for 97 minutes or so, if I'm not interrupted during the recitation. Once, before the proto-environmentalist influence proliferated our society, we understood the importance of the Thanksgiving feast and it's religious and secular place in American society. Today, we take for granted the miracle of our majestic American Thanksgiving tree having grown from one little Thanksgiving seed, oh how it became our lumber and fuel, shelter from wind and sun, home for the birds, squirrels, and honeybees, and agent for pure good. But these days, you don't feel that such ruminations are worthy of your time. Instead of my little recitation becoming the high point of a day-long celebration of our roots and branches, about seven p.m. I'll most likely be delivering a slurred, drunken speech to Pablo, if I can get him to stay in the room… lately he runs whenever I call him. Ever since I had him neutered, he doesn't come around as readily as he once did. Anyway, since none of you jerks bother to show up, only Pablo is lucky enough to hear my stirring-albeit gin-besotted-words. I should point out that my wrath is not directed at everyone who bailed. For example, I forgive you, dear Emily, I know that your mother, Aunty Clara, has had many surgeries, but it does seem a little bizarre that they were scheduled for that same week, eight years running… but I respect your decision to stay by her side, even if it was for elective liposuction. Patrick, I know how difficult it can be to get permission from your parole officer to leave your domicile on a Thanksgiving Thursday, though I would think that even you might be successful after seventeen years of trying. And I'm certain, Michael, that your sudden onsets of "stomach cancer" are genuine, and in no way psychosomatic. But the rest of you have no excuse. None. I don't suppose any of you are bothered by the fact that I now have a freezer full of Rocky Mountain Oysters that I planned to give away as door prizes. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bothered by the fact that I spent $1,500 for the delectable little morsels (morsels, by the way, that I planned to deep-fry and serve as appetizers to sustain everyone during the recitation). Hey, why am I bothering to tell you this? I'm sure you're all sitting there at home, laughing your heads off at The Thanksgiving Party guy, the uber-patriot dude, the patient uncle/grampy/father-in-law/respected nearly-world-renowned poet who happens to think that spending a couple hours listening to the story of our Founding Fathers is not too dear a price to pay for the bounties that our beloved Dotty annually provides. Thanksgiving Day is some big joke to all of you. Ha, ha, ha. But one day, sooner than you think, you'll be old, too. You'll look out the window, and you'll think about crazy ol' Bubba and how you wish you'd taken time to spend Thanksgiving with him. Then, not long after that, you will die. Fortunately, it's still not too late. There's always this Thanksgiving Day. You better believe I'll be celebrating it, and if you're smart, you'll take advantage of this opportunity. The party will be on the same day it always is, the last Thursday in November, so mark your calendars, and I'll see you. Yeah, right! PS-I'm enclosing a photo of Dotty's newest
creation that she plans to serve-Thanksgiving Pizza! Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla, and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations at http://musecrafters.com/notquiteright/ |
Cheshire Cat
Nothin' Better
Songs
of
Life In The
Hello, family and friends! Guess what? Yes, it's
that time of year again, and enclosed along with this letter,
you'll find an invitation to my Thanksgiving Feast. The same
feast you've found ways to avoid the last seventeen years in
a row. Dotty and little Pablo would love to have you join us,
and Pablo promises not to make wee on anyone's lap this year.
The vet says the parasites are gone and most of Pablo's sores
have either healed or stopped oozing.
