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_May you recall your morals, and all for which you are thankful. Happy Thanksgiving. Oh, and Write in the Shade._
Much to be thankful for, indeed. The forthcoming feast, naturally 0 and a feast worthy of Hobbitonian approval it shall be - but much, much more than just that.
The surroundings. Such beauties have been gifted to us as humans throughout Southern California & Beyond. It is a sin to take such surroundings for granted. My father, freshly returned from a too-crowded hike up a local mountain, is reiterating such an observation over his first glass of red wine for the Holiday. He will likely have two glasses on such an occasion.
Thankful further for the peace awarded to me since the year of my birth. I was up late watching battle analyses of Ukrainian positions along the Линия Суровикина and the conclusion that is always so natural upon seeing any war footage was again at the front of my mind. War sucks. That I have not once needed to subject, steel, or prepare myself for such brutalities of human nature is a prayer answered daily for all of my 11,899 living cycles upon this rock.
Peace counts twice today. My inner peace is worth more to me than coin galore. I have managed quite a stable period of years without jeopardizing this. I have not perfected this stability, but it takes a fair amount today to shake my patience. A virtue I think is essential to pursue peace.
Recalling all the thanksgiving to be had, I drifted, outdoors and under treeshade, to the scratching of my pad and dreams in my head. Woody Guthrie on my radio, American Football on the Big Screen just indoors, mother eagerly testing her new recipes today[^1], and the trees swaying in the breeze around me. Looking around with one’s eyes open makes the listing of gratitudes unnecessary - all around us are things to be grateful for; the very best observations in this world usually go unwritten.
It was just following the Giant’s fumble to start the second half - after a halftime show of pop country music and an appearance by a man named after a pastry - that I lit the table’s candles and we served our first day of today’s feast. The following was written in my head as our family table overflowed with New World resources and flavours:
The Mother often asks the most motherly questions. The Mother shares questionable Internet articles, enjoys Hallmark Movies, and even picks up an occasional tabloid paper. Just today, she has been formulating some of her thinkings and readings regarding the modern cotillion of watching NFL games during the Thanksgiving Day of Feasting.
The Father often brings up last year’s fads and memes. The father listens exclusively to 8 Track music, wears some of the more outrageous bargain toggery Walmart has to offer, and makes the same jokes fathers have been making for centuries passed. Just today, he is insisting upon watching the NFL games on mute in order to provide his own commentary. And sound effects.
The Son often is quiet. The Son is normally reading some book the Parents have never read, debating spirits of ideas and ideologies the Parents have never heard of, and is unable to look away from the growing darkness he believes to have identified. Just last night he was up far too late watching war footage of the 蘇羅維金防線. He thinks himself an armchair analyst or something similar.
I turn the Schneekugel over in my hand. The subnivean setting is all too perfect, as the white snow-like powder flows freely and does not seem out of place in a setting all so Human. How blessed the times used to be. How much fortune and love we once had and let slip between our fingers.
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[1]: I had my application for sous-chef rejected just this morning