Have Pen and Camera, Will Travel: #219 Holiday Season Greetings

Hoping you all find something to be thankful for.

Our Old House in Canby

A Couple of Thanksgiving Stories

Thanksgiving Holiday is always a thoughtful time and this year. because of our leaving our house of 38 years, is even more thoughtful for us. For this post I decided to present a couple of Thanksgiving stories and some fall photography.

The Birks of Aberfeldy, Scotland

The Fairy Pools Trail, Isle of Skye

Anniversary to Remember

Married in 1968 the weekend before Thanksgiving, our anniversaries have always been near the holiday. Our 25th wedding anniversary, celebrated in 1993, was an important one and on the day of Thanksgiving. Plans were being made for big celebrations, but those plans got interrupted by Anne’s chance to go to Hawaii for the whole week of Thanksgiving to attend a teacher leadership conference (which included golf opportunities). I couldn’t go, of course, and Anne was reluctant to accept the offer until I convinced her we’d still have our celebrations, just later. On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I was at school when I received a giant bouquet of flowers in the middle of a class. Lovely as it was, it quickly became the talk of the school—Mr. Bob got flowers. When Anne called on Thanksgiving, I told her I loved her, but she had embarrassed me at school. Then I asked her about what she was having for Turkey Day Dinner. She told me about the fancy dinner they had had. She then asked what I was having. I said, “Fried Spam.” I tell that story of my 25th Anniversary/Thanksgiving Spam dinner every chance I get.

Ballatter GC, Highlands

St Fillans GC, Our Club

Sma'Glen, Highlands

Near Loch Tay, Highlands

This second story is an award winning essay about Thanksgiving memories from a newspaper contest in 1978.

A Freshman Alone at Thanksgiving

“Closed,” “Sorry.” The signs reflected off glistening streets. Neon colors splashed from the wet sidewalks. Arcadia, California, was a lonely place for a stranger on this Thanksgiving Day 1963.

All day I had been involved in a college speech and debate tournament at Humbolt State University. Amidst camaraderie and competition I hadn’t given much thought to being away from home on Thanksgiving. But the coming darkness draped around my shoulders the shroud of the loneliness of a freshman away from home.

When you’re eighteen and a freshman in college everything new is an adventure.

A speech tournament at Thanksgiving only meant a chance to see a new place and meet new people. Reality, though, has a way of catching up, even with a freshman. So, here I was wandering dim streets, alone, in a strange town, seeking the only inexpensive restaurant open on Thanksgiving within walking distance of our motel.

The garish fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria blinded me as I sought to adjust from the dark night. Servers filled trays with the contempt of those forced to work when they wanted to be at home with their families. “Thanksgiving Special—A Complete Traditional Turkey Dinner (with all the trimmings—$1.89, drink extra,” said the sign taped to the glass overlooking trays of limp lettuce salad. At the end of the line my tray had on it two thin slices of pressed turkey (mostly dark meat), a scoop of dressing, a scoop of whipped potatoes almost as runny as the speckled gravy on it, a small paper cup of cranberry sauce. I paid extra for a glass of milk and a cup of coffee.

My hunger overcame my growing depression. I found myself enjoying the food in spite of the surroundings. As my plate-to-mouth motions became automatic my mind strayed out the rain streaked windows. My thoughts wandered into the darkness and all the way home. The family would be gathered at either an aunt’s house or our place. Dinner of plump hot turkey which I might have gotten to carve, fluffy dressing bulging with spicy sausage, both mashed potatoes with rich gravy and yams with brown sugar, and all the extras that make tradition live would have been cleared away hours ago. Uncle Lee and Dad would be arguing about who would deal the card game. Aunt Loretta, Mom, my sister Dee and the cousins would be cutting pies, whipping the cream, and sneaking bites of meat off Henrietta Hen’s carcass. Someone might have pulled out a Christmas album which propriety dictates can’t be played until after Thanksgiving Day—or at least until after the dinner is over. A car honking outside the cafeteria interrupted my communion. I finished my coffee and left so hurriedly that I left a tip even though there hadn’t been a waitress.

Back on the damp street I tried to recapture those visions of family and warmth. The moment was gone. I’d had my Thanksgiving, but would have to wait a few days to share it with those who mattered.