Thanksgiving came just before the big shift. The virus had not yet been tamed; it continued to descend through the atmosphere like an infinity of paratroopers from an earlier time. The fat narcissist continued to pout on his golden throne. While the virus wafted airborne in the wildfire fog, his minions still danced around their dissipating leader, sweating mascara and pirouetting on their orbits each time he bellowed “fraud.” We had survived four years under the shadow of this clown elected through an accident of democracy. Now we slogged through the time and space he had poisoned like weary veterans returning from a long campaign.
Yes, we would celebrate.
We wanted to celebrate, even if our PTSD made us wary of good fortune. We like thanksgiving, both the act and the spirit, with its long history of collective meals, often shared with reconfigured families. Besides, thanksgiving offered us one of the few secular holidays, despite its suspicious origins — who knew that Squanto had been kidnapped by an English sea captain, sold into slavery in London where he escaped on board an expedition vessel bound for Massachusetts? There, at the home of Massasoit, he used his newly acquired abilities to serve as diplomat between the newcomers and their indigenous counterparts. The peace Squanto established lasted for decades, a good long time in our experience. Yes, we would celebrate.
So we set out to prepare for our pandemic holiday. We donned our gathering gear — masks for the aerosols, gloves for the microbes, and hats for the ultraviolet. Over the river and through the woods we went to the community larder where we traded words for halibut caught in the wilderness, far from the stultifying farms where the water absorbed plastic shrapnel and glowed radioactive. We traded songs for tiny sweet potatoes grown in soil that had been cleansed of pesticides and for peppers grown far to the south on terraced mountain slopes. We had raised our own tomatoes in the summer heat and smoke, alongside our sturdy Jack Herer cannabis. I found a pumpkin in a pile. I would make a pie.
On the holiday we woke, drank coffee, walked in the sunlight and talked of the turning events and the prospect that the peculiar battle in the capital would be resolved by newcomers unwilling to accept the perennial head-butting rituals of the old, white men who clung to power with the desperation of those who suspected but could not accept that their time had come. We spoke over satellites to our families and other distant loved ones and clattered around the kitchen.
When dinner was ready, we sat down, the two of us, one on each side of our large table and expressed our thanks — for each other and the rich life we had woven for ourselves and each other, for the shelter of our home and for the continued friendships we maintained. We gave thanks for the stubborn beauty and intricate balance that our planet maintained, despite the assaults of the Anthropocene age we had created. We gave thanks to all those who had worked so hard to unseat the lunatic fringe. Our feline trio joined us and we thanked all the creatures large and small who have survived on this tiny, emerald globe that still, miraculously, spirals through the void in synch with the sun and our own galaxy.
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Charles DegelmanWriter, editor, and educator based in Los Angeles. He's also played a lot of music. Degelman teaches writing at California State University, Los Angeles.
Degelman lives in the hills of Hollywood with his companion on the road of life, four cats, assorted dogs, and a coterie of communard brothers and sisters.
Thanx Charles for reminding us of small and bigger mercies.
Happy holidays!
Grateful for your words and your collegial support, Dana.
I teared up over the combined horrific and beautiful images this story evoked, Charles, and I can visualize you and your companions at the table. What a schizophrenic combination of terror and gratitude we are living with now. The featured image is absolutely stunning as well.
Appreciative of our shared experience, Marian. Terror and gratitude for sure!
Beautiful story, Charlie! Written like a science fiction novel, and yet completely true and so descriptive of what we are all going through. I was going to tell you which part I liked best, but then realized. . . it was all of it! Love that your three kitties joined (or will join) you for your feast too. A wonderful piece of writing, thanks for this gift!
Thanks, Suzy. Maybe I’ll poach some herring for Laura, Sal, and the Bink. Or go traditional with a Cornish game hen for them.
Wow, Charles, this is a totally unique and creative take on Thanksgiving 2020.
Thanks, Laurie. And grateful for our mutual appreciation.
LIke Suzy, I found myself reading this as if it weren’t true in the least but was a futuristic glimpse of some other time and place that none of us will know,. But at the same time the drumbeat of present reality seemed to be banging on the door. Well executed.
Thanks, Dale. Perhaps the story would be better as fiction but reality can at times be stranger than fiction and fact is, this is what we got!
I love each and every wonderful and perfectly chosen word, Charles. Warmest wishes for an enjoyable Thanksgiving!
Thanks, Barb. Valuing our rapport and this Internet hall.
Charles, your words of truth and sci fi blend together and meld into a hopeful vision of a shared feast with your collective household. Yes, this is a secular holiday worth celebrating, hopeful that we can finally be rid of the clown in DC, who continues to cause untold chaos, but whose reign of terror may yet be coming to an end.
I particularly enjoyed your history lesson, as today in the Globe I read about the Plimouth and Pautuxtic Museum (the renamed Plimouth Plantation) and how Thanksgiving will be celebrated in the era of COVID. Enjoy your holiday, Chas.
Betsy, delighted you took some modicum of value from my post. I’m giving thanks for the rich longevity we all contribute to in retrospect! Cheers.
This is terrific, Charles, and so creative. I would characterize it along the lines of a “Prospective memoir” rather than fiction, as I assume (and hope) that this will all come to pass as you beautifully describe it in just a few days.
I also look forward to your soon-to-be published “memoir” about January 20, 2021 in Washington. It should be equally uplifting.