VIEW FROM THE PEW
We finished the Thanksgiving shopping early this month, taking advantage of some minimally reduced prices at the supermarket and drugstore. Not much expectation these days of real bargain prices on a big bird or ham or premium veggies or pumpkin pie. “Good deal” seems to have become a fairy tale; file that notion next to “happily ever after.”
But we weren’t aiming for the legendary American holiday meal anyway. We loaded up on Spam, canned fruit and beans, noodles, soda crackers, a few boxes of cookies … all destined for deposit into the food drive bin at church.
I’m grateful this holiday for the churches, social service agencies and hundreds of volunteers dedicated to the logistics of actual giving, especially those who go to the effort of cooking and serving a hot meal for hungry, homeless or lonely folks.
The church food drive announcement itself is food for thought. It calls for nonperishable items only and specifically suggests flip-top cans. Picture the people who have no stove to cook on or refrigerator to store fresh produce and meat, eating out of cans. You just know that whatever food is received will be eaten soon, not tucked away on pantry shelves.
That’s where my critical mind wanders whenever we see or hear emergency agency bulletins advising stocking up on weeks’ worth of supplies during hurricane season or in advance of any stormy weather. I feel sheepish and even guilty when I inventory the stash in my cupboard. How many families even have the luxury of investing in food futures; the kids are hungry right now.
Thanksgiving kicks off the season of expectations of wonderful things, of living the dream. It’s time for a barrage of ecstatic images, starting with the feast at a loaded table surrounded by cheery faces, the big family all together in the land of plenty. Not even a pause, then it’s on to the Christmas cliches; shoppers with apparent high credit limits, compatible togetherness in a house aglow, parties and presents and happiness, oh my.
A realistic, sensible resident of our land of plenty would have developed an internal self-defense against advertising. You’d think. There should be webinars and advice columns about how to survive the secular season — which to be cautiously politically correct, people avoid calling Christmas.
It makes some sense to use feasting and partying scenes to sell food, drink, home decorations, cookery products. But isn’t it a reach as imagery to market air-conditioning, or pest control or pharmaceutical and hygiene products? By the way, why in the world is every holiday throughout the year grounds for having a sale on mattresses? Huh? Car dealers are living out their own Santa fantasy if they really expect people to buy an SUV for a loved one. Capitalism run amok.
Much as I scoff at trite Facebook postings, this one makes sense: “Don’t go into debt to show someone you love them.” You are not a failure if you can’t lavish everyone with gifts. There’s nothing wrong with you if you are content without the crowd scene; it’s okay to celebrate in small chapters, little kindnesses, quiet times and minimal lights.
You can survive the commercialized, endlessly repeated songs if you flip your internal select button to humor instead of irritation or anger. A co-worker of mine used to unleash a stream of epithets after overdosing on the musical tales of that neon-nosed reindeer or the tireless little drummer boy. We started a competition of composing our own lyrics to annoying songs. Very therapeutic, laughs galore. Sorry, some content is not appropriate to share.
Getting the Grinch out
Bear with me, getting the Grinch out of my system, an annual purge. I’ll get past it by next month and enter into the spirit of the Advent season and contemplation of the real reason to celebrate Christmas. I promise.
Meanwhile, back to Thanksgiving. I know people who volunteer for the Salvation Army’s Thanksgiving feast for hundreds at Blaisdell Center. It was a rewarding experience for a family who brought their kids, an eye-opener that eclipsed whatever personal and family events they’d join later. It became an annual tradition for that family.
Thanksgiving is a time of great and grateful memories for my sister and me. In our earlier island years, we’d share our small family gathering with single folks such as recent migrants from the mainland. Our day starred a large turkey and cups of cheer that enhanced our songs around the piano.
Then, for decades later, we were lucky hanai members of our Hawaiian ohana, with seats at many a holiday table at Venus Holt’s home. Thanksgiving Day featured a really big turkey, every possible additional traditional dish, cups of cheer and, oh yes, fantastic voices raised around the piano. “Those were the days my friends, we thought they’d never end.” But time did march on and the convivial circle shrunk.
We hardly remembered what to do when we segued from being guests to hosts for the meal. So many things to get done all at the same time, whew. It was our own little quorum of fellow newspaper pals around the table, talking too much to pause for singing. What precious memories those are.
I remembered all those dear people from Thanksgivings past with the All Souls Day tradition of listing names in the book of the dead at church. The list of deceased people for whom we pray in November is sometimes called the Book of Life. In the tradition we share with Jewish and Muslim believers, that term harks back to a biblical idea of God’s list of people who are bound for heaven.
It’s a solemn thing to do, but I had to grin when I did it because a few of those friends, some Protestants and a couple rascally fellows, would be giving me a hard time about rounding them up in a Catholic tradition. I stand by my belief about their destination.
We two sisters chose to migrate to Hawaii decades ago, with not a big family left behind in the cold climate but our own version of a clan gathering. We’ll reminisce about how stressful Thanksgiving Day could be. The holiday falls in the midst of deer-hunting season back in the Midwest. It was a heavy workday for our game warden father, out policing the hunters. Our uncle and cousins were out hunting in the woods, too. There was Mom, solely in charge of all the cooking and logistics of the banquet, hopefully aiming for an early dinner … without knowing when the men would show up. I remember them being mostly late, hours after the turkey’s prime time. I don’t remember being much help in the kitchen at all. There were cups of cheer, yes; singing around the piano, nope.
Our younger generations are back in the cold climate, all going in different directions for the holiday. Our phones will be ringing to check in with “the girls” in Hawaii who will be doing an abbreviated version of the banquet. If we skip something, no one will complain. To tell the truth, in our current circumstances, it’s a relief. We’ll load up the CD player for our singalong.
I scooted out of the way at the supermarket freezer aisle where a traffic jam of carts was the sign of a turkey grabbing frenzy, everyone digging for the right size. It reminded me of a local tradition that faded away. Remember when one local supermarket held a giveaway of whole frozen turkeys to needy folks? Customers could contribute money for the largesse. I imagine it finally dawned on someone that many of the intended beneficiaries wouldn’t even have an oven.
Another tradition gone
Another bygone tradition in my parish was the blessing of food destined for dinner. We could each bring a food item and lay it out on a table up front where it would be blessed during Thanksgiving day Mass. It was a picturesque small towny kind of tradition. Not practical to bring the bird or dressing; lots of wine bottles among the pies and yams, as I recall. I never heard of people selecting someone else’s treat in crass disregard of the spirit of the season. But with a change of pastors, change of tradition, bless your own food when it reaches the table.
Does your family use that traditional old blessing: “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.” We’ll have to remember it this time. I hope we get to Mass that day, and sing that old song, “We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.” I’m not sure how often those sentiments are expressed this week. This has gotten to be about as secular a holiday as there is. Is it still politically correct for school kids to learn about the Pilgrims, since they were church people? Anyway, the indigenous people were the good guys in that story, so that should be okay to teach.
Instead of amusing myself by musing about Thanksgivings past, what I should be doing is spending hours on my knees in thankful prayer for making it through a year of trials and tribulations. Health issues that I won’t relive changed the way I think of myself and my life going forward. To quote someone who objected to listening to a friend’s long chronicle of health issues, “I didn’t come here for an organ recital.” I wouldn’t subject you to one.
My thanks-giving this year is all about my sister who took care of me for months. She left her own house and life, hunkered down with the worst possible patient in the world.
The words to describe me in my convalescence are not printable, except maybe “distempered snarling female tiger.”
There aren’t enough words in my vocabulary to describe my gratitude for what I received this year: the love, kindness, sacrifice, worry, advice, selfless deeds, sleepless nights, time devoted, forgiveness given for my tantrums and humiliations.
Thank you, dear Lord, for Helen. You know who I mean. She’s already in your book of life. Please give her a lot more time on earth. There’s three generations of us who really treasure her. Amen.
