Little Randy had filled himself to the brim with turkey and stuffing and family good cheer. After reaching his limit of pats on the head from maiden aunts and exclamations of, “My how big you’re getting!” from other well-meaning relations, he put on his coat and escaped to the rolling hills out behind the house. He had not been to Grandma’s in a long time and had forgotten how much fun it was to roam the fields and make up adventures that grownups would never understand.

He had, also, forgotten about the ominous dark building at the very top of the tallest hill, which he imagined to be the ship of a sea faring explorer tossing upon the waves. Sometimes the clang of a bell would echo across the glen that separated the imaginary ship from the imaginary shore upon which he stood. Cupping his hands around his eyes as if peering through binoculars, Randy focused on the double arched doors at the front of the structure and tried to get a clearer view. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of the captain or see if the crew was permitted Thanksgiving rations as they tirelessly manned the sails.

All of a sudden, one of the doors swung open and out marched a group of unusual looking people dressed in black bonnets, starched white collars and long dark robes. Randy was taken by surprise. He never really expected to see anyone — it was just pretend. But the whole procession was now headed precisely in his direction! He turned quickly and stumbled down the hill. “Mama, Mama, the Pilgrims are coming, the Pilgrims are coming!” He shouted as he ran.

He burst into the house. “What’s the matter?” his mother asked with a concerned voice and a curious look. “The Pilgrims are coming, Mama!” repeated little Randy. She put her arm over his shoulder and hurried to the window. They parted the curtains just in time to see a group of Nuns from the Abbey on the hill passing by on their after dinner constitutional.

Randy is Vigi’s kid brother and ‘The Pilgrim Story’ is one of her favorite Thanksgiving memories from childhood. He was only three or four at the time and today sports more than a bit of gray around the gills, like so many of us — but it is the family times that offer the most vivid memories of this festive holiday.

There are those who write about atrocities committed against the Indians (It would be 300 years or so before they became Native-Americans). Still others use the occasion to make some obscure political point. Me? I wasn’t around back then to harm anyone. The only atrocity I ever committed on Thanksgiving involves turkey, stuffing, two kinds of potatoes, cranberry sauce and a few notches let out in my belt to make room for Vigi’s fresh baked lemon meringue, pumpkin AND apple pies. It’s a celebration of life and plenty — a purely American holiday made for gatherings with family and friends. It’s also a time for reflection and for gratitude.

I live in a terrific home sharing a wonderful life with an incredible lady. While we’ve had some rough patches, and each of us has slipped at times down a health-threatening slope, we’re here to talk about it. I’ve known the joy of children, the sweet smell of success and bounced back from the bitter taste of failure. I have good friends. I may not be wealthy but I am rich. I have no regrets.

On Thanksgiving I choose to celebrate and give thanks for these things and for more than any man has a right to. If anyone wants to complain about historical matters that have been rewritten a thousand times, and probably never once accurately, the best I can do is point him toward the window and tell him to keep watch for the Pilgrims — but first, please pass the gravy.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

We signed some holy papers, promised in front of God and about eighty-three broadly grinning, teary eyed people to love, honor and cherish one another [Vigi still insists the word "obey" wasn't in there] … then each slipped a wedding ring onto the other’s trembling fourth finger of the left hand. If you start counting from the pinky, or don’t count the thumb as a finger, everything changes but the ring still winds up in the same place.

To some it’s a universal symbol of never ending love and devotion, while others treat it simply as another piece of jewelry that is worn like a watch or bracelet … and may even, occasionally, get tucked into a pocket or purse during unspecified extracurricular activities. Most women wear it with a measure of contentment, watching it grow smoother and thinner as details disappear with the passage of time. Most guys wear it dutifully, periodically contemplating the permanent groove it etches into that fourth phalange as their own circumference increases and that of their wedding ring does not.

There are two occasions when the ring can be a symbol of sadness: Customarily, when it migrates from the left hand to the right upon death of a spouse and stupidly, when some dufus takes it off in a bar or similar setting. The latter occasion is particularly pathetic because the offending party is not only intending to violate the honor and trust that was once vowed at the altar but, if it’s a guy, he’s also clearly ignorant of the magical power that ring has to attract women … nearly as great as its power to manufacture immeasurable amounts of guilt. Nonetheless, a wedding ring is a babe magnet! If you don’t believe me, just walk into a singles bar sometime and notice who is drinking alone and who is making small talk through a big nervous smile.

I once interviewed a group of women who expressed a strong preference for married men. The most common reason given? “Because they’re safe. You know you don’t have to get involved.” I have no idea why men might be attracted to married women, unless they’re filthy rich … that wasn’t part of my assignment. Either way, the Seventh Commandment has taken quite a beating for a long time!

What happens on your finger often reflects what’s happening inside in your head. I’ve worn two wedding rings during my lifetime and, looking back, they receive mixed reviews. To avoid eye-glazing detail, suffice to say that my first wedding ring ended up in a shop that had a “We Buy Gold” sign on the door. It netted thirty-five bucks. The second one has never left my finger since it was originally installed nearly twenty-five years ago … except during surgery. Even then, Veege and I touched fingertips and slipped the ring onto her finger from mine and back again in the recovery room.

Both of us have always attached great importance to preserving the tangible expressions of the emotional bond we share. Notice I didn’t say “the love we share” … that’s something different, though it’s all part of the same package along with romance and other aspects of sharing one soul and one spirit. It may have great importance, but I don’t love my ring … I love my wife.

There is one tangible expression that still remains unexpressed and, not coincidentally, it too encircles the fourth finger of the left hand. When we became engaged, I couldn’t afford a proper-size diamond so, on the advice of a friend, I gave Vigi a rather elegant birthstone ring instead … along with the promise that on our twenty-fifth anniversary I would exchange it for a diamond. Although she has tried several devices to let me off the hook, to me that’s like the fat guy waving his dish in the air while turning down a second chunk of chocolate cake. With only a few months to go, dinner is over … and dessert has begun!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.