Driving the day before Thanksgiving has always been a dreaded task to me. However, it seemed to me this year returning was more hectic. For the first three hours almost every half hour I came across an accident. The interstate was fully loaded with college students, families, and anyone else visiting for the holidays packed in their vehicle trying to return home as soon as possible, like myself. However, some may have been in too much of a hurry, hence the collisions.
First, it astounds me how slow everyone insists on moving to rubberneck towards the carnage. Can you not gawk traveling 50 to 60 mph. Second, use the left lane as the passing lane. If you are not passing then you are in no need to be in the left lane. Third, if you are going to pass then pass and move on. It is always a test of patience when I am behind someone who acts like they will pass the vehicle beside them, but instead sit at the same speed causing traffic to build up. Fourth, if you are being passed to not be offended causing you to speed up making it impossible to pass creating bottle-necking.
During my driving I found it particularly interesting how many mini vans and SUVs most likely transporting children had DVD players. On several occasions when a vehicle passed inside I could see small monitor screens, sometimes on in each passenger sear. I felt left out. All I had was my CD player to keep me company.
We truly have become a TV induced society. Do kids not read, color, or fight in the car anymore? As parents, have we allowed principle to become so inconsequential that we will throw mindless images as a trance for the children in order to keep them quiet? What happen to music to sing along or games, like I Spy (my family actually had Travel Scrabble), What is wrong with the sibling rivalry of punches and "Thats mine," and "Get out of my space?" Do parents talk anymore to their kids to find out what is important? It may not be the most stimulating conversation, but the child will appreciate you care.
My favorite pass time on long drives was listening to stories. A radio program that my sister and I loved call Adventures in Odyssey provided moral lessons to learn and imagery for the imagination. Then there were Garrison Keillor's stories from Lake Wabagon. From Keillor's descriptions I could always envision the Great frozen Lakes and massive snow drifts. I could imagine a summer night on a wrap-around porch sipping ice tea surrounded by the smell of freshly cut grass and home grown tomatoes in the garden. But are children able to create any such imageries anymore. Too busy hoping for Christmas to receive a Playstation or cell phone that matched their purse or an Ipod that can hold 50 hours of songs and movies.
But now I am sounding too much like Dana Carvey's Grumpy Old Man: "In my day we didn't have cars. We grabbed four brats that behaved the worst and strapped boards to their backs and made them run on all fours moshing like wild wolves as we road on top. In my day if someone slowly moved in our way hogging the road we shot them. We hung their bodies in trees upside-down by the ankles, placed a sign on declaring them as disturbers of the peace as "Slug Pugs," And thats how we kept the children entertained. Non of this X-Box nonsense or chatting on the phone. You wanted to contact someone you screamed from the top of your lungs till you started wheezing from lack of oxygen eventually loosing your voice. If you wanted to play games you thumped your brothers and/or sisters until all your bruises made you look more like a disfigured grape. Who ever had the biggest deepest whelps won. If the kids did not behave they were roped up and dragged behind where they became too dirty and unrecognizable. Most often they were lost and/or forgotten becoming wild hethens howling at the moon, eating crickets and ground worms, often going half mad, AND WE LIKED IT!"
29.11.06
The Traveler
The road has no beginning or end. It is rugged. It is smooth. The road travels through steep ravens when the elevation rises so high ears pop and it feels like there are inches from falling into the abyss. The road will drive for miles in a straight line as an entrance to a geometric equation where forward is the only direction. There will be sites of towering mountains, then rolling hills, rain forests surrounded my waterfalls. There will be such desolate voidness that it will be easy to forget life exists. There will be sceneries of quaintness and homeliness and poverty and lavishness. Such wonders will appear as it will seem impossible to be earthly, but the presence of awesomeness will create pride to be amongst it.
No road is too easy. There is no road too impossible to travel. Our Odysseus cannot be held back from his ventures. He has a wondering eye and a curious spirit. He soaks in all the views whether good or bad to store in his repertoire of memories. He is unbound to the errors of this world seeking only what he knows is right in his heart.
It could be a possession of selfishness, but it could also be a mark of a true explorer. No longer tied to the establishments of conditioning our traveler explores the worlds of his thought desiring the desperation of freedom. Cages of materialism, duty, responsibility cannot contain him. He has a moral obligation to himself: to seek, to wonder, to learn, to experience, to never, ever limit himself to the possibilities of a world of nature.
Upon his Odyssey, the hero crosses boundaries to dare to resist conventionalism. His heart is eager and his mind is focused. Does he dare to travel alone, which can be a lonely lifestyle, or does he meet existing travelers along the way? Does he find what his heart searches? Does all his hopes and expectations become fulfilled? Is he the hero we applaud and envy because we are too scared to achieve his attempts? Or do we judge and condemn his foolish efforts.
Does the traveler have the story of all ages with examples of courageousness and valuer? Do we see him as an example to learn and be inspired or do we remain content to be contained? Does he tell our stories we are too afraid to accomplish? Or does he laugh at us for our lack of faith?
I see myself in him running at the opportunity to embrace the freedom. I feel myself filled with excitement of an adventure that can only be mine. There is hope in the unexpected and joy for whatever may come.
I go with the traveler because he is a good companion for the journey. He listens well and offers good conversation. He reminds me of what I love and what I long to see and do. I keep the traveler close so I do not forget. I do not want to be filled with regret that will later make him laugh at my lack of faith. I travel with him because I am open to views that others ignore or overlook.
Along the many roads of various conditions we travel steadily, faithfully. I have our destinations mapped. Our anticipation grows to the anthem of notes playing continuously amongst us. The music that never stops playing as our soundtrack moving to the shapes of passing scenery. Like a locomotive's piston to keep the engine running to a rhythm-the music is out meter to the passing miles helping time to pass as if it never existed bring new meaning to there is only now.
With any journey there is an end. Depending on attitude and vision determines the journey's rate of success. How profitable is the experience? Did you visit all the destinations? Did you stay under budget? Did you meet many people? Did the driving run smoothly? Did you manage to avoid unwelcome surprises? Or, is it possible to experience the journey as another dimension and not the pure physical? Is it possible for every wrong disastrous occurrence to happen yet still have the best experience? Is it possible to have been completely lost but also viewed as a time of discovery and new possibilities? Is it possible to strike every emotion never feeling more alive? Is it conceivable to be surrounded by such loneliness that you soul welcomes the peace? Is it conceivable to enjoy the trouble because you know it makes you stronger?
Stories are not built on the foundation of good luck or perfect harmony. Stories are constructed upon the adversities faced then the challenge to overcome. What interest is there if everything moved perfectly. Where would the growth be? Where would the captivation exist?
For myself, I will shine for my achievements and scoff at your fears for I attempted what you could not conceive. I dared to resist my fears pressing into my dreams. Not just my desires, but what I know is impossible I now believe can be realty.
The traveler knows this. He knows it all to well. He moves with ease as I watch from his lessons. We move with no fear, only forward to the One who knows best.
No road is too easy. There is no road too impossible to travel. Our Odysseus cannot be held back from his ventures. He has a wondering eye and a curious spirit. He soaks in all the views whether good or bad to store in his repertoire of memories. He is unbound to the errors of this world seeking only what he knows is right in his heart.
It could be a possession of selfishness, but it could also be a mark of a true explorer. No longer tied to the establishments of conditioning our traveler explores the worlds of his thought desiring the desperation of freedom. Cages of materialism, duty, responsibility cannot contain him. He has a moral obligation to himself: to seek, to wonder, to learn, to experience, to never, ever limit himself to the possibilities of a world of nature.
Upon his Odyssey, the hero crosses boundaries to dare to resist conventionalism. His heart is eager and his mind is focused. Does he dare to travel alone, which can be a lonely lifestyle, or does he meet existing travelers along the way? Does he find what his heart searches? Does all his hopes and expectations become fulfilled? Is he the hero we applaud and envy because we are too scared to achieve his attempts? Or do we judge and condemn his foolish efforts.
Does the traveler have the story of all ages with examples of courageousness and valuer? Do we see him as an example to learn and be inspired or do we remain content to be contained? Does he tell our stories we are too afraid to accomplish? Or does he laugh at us for our lack of faith?
I see myself in him running at the opportunity to embrace the freedom. I feel myself filled with excitement of an adventure that can only be mine. There is hope in the unexpected and joy for whatever may come.
I go with the traveler because he is a good companion for the journey. He listens well and offers good conversation. He reminds me of what I love and what I long to see and do. I keep the traveler close so I do not forget. I do not want to be filled with regret that will later make him laugh at my lack of faith. I travel with him because I am open to views that others ignore or overlook.
Along the many roads of various conditions we travel steadily, faithfully. I have our destinations mapped. Our anticipation grows to the anthem of notes playing continuously amongst us. The music that never stops playing as our soundtrack moving to the shapes of passing scenery. Like a locomotive's piston to keep the engine running to a rhythm-the music is out meter to the passing miles helping time to pass as if it never existed bring new meaning to there is only now.
With any journey there is an end. Depending on attitude and vision determines the journey's rate of success. How profitable is the experience? Did you visit all the destinations? Did you stay under budget? Did you meet many people? Did the driving run smoothly? Did you manage to avoid unwelcome surprises? Or, is it possible to experience the journey as another dimension and not the pure physical? Is it possible for every wrong disastrous occurrence to happen yet still have the best experience? Is it possible to have been completely lost but also viewed as a time of discovery and new possibilities? Is it possible to strike every emotion never feeling more alive? Is it conceivable to be surrounded by such loneliness that you soul welcomes the peace? Is it conceivable to enjoy the trouble because you know it makes you stronger?
Stories are not built on the foundation of good luck or perfect harmony. Stories are constructed upon the adversities faced then the challenge to overcome. What interest is there if everything moved perfectly. Where would the growth be? Where would the captivation exist?
For myself, I will shine for my achievements and scoff at your fears for I attempted what you could not conceive. I dared to resist my fears pressing into my dreams. Not just my desires, but what I know is impossible I now believe can be realty.
The traveler knows this. He knows it all to well. He moves with ease as I watch from his lessons. We move with no fear, only forward to the One who knows best.
The Traveler.
25.11.06
Disgusting Habit of Dipping
Can someone please explain to me the attraction to chewing dip. I understand the need for nicotine and the accessibility of it at all times even where smoking is not allowed. So, for convenience sake and the need to fix a nicotine craving are the only two excuses I can think of to justify such a grotesque habit.
To take this clump of tobacco, place it in the gum of the mouth to sit against the cheek or teeth, then to proceed to talk while this glob protrudes from the face, like a tumor, mumbling hardly understandable about how redneck some in the family is while spit is being flung out barely missing the person present immensely enjoying the conversation. Then once the wondrous flavor has vanished the saliva drenched black yuckiness that now looks like a bad case of bird diarrhea is launched with great thrust from the mouth hucked into the the nearest trash can, bottle, empty container, or better yet, onto the ground so that the next unsuspecting passer-byer steps into the lovely surprise.
So..... This dear fellow will grin about his successful thrusting tar infested missile revealing black grime caked upon his rotting teeth. What an endearing habit to obtain. Mmmmmm.... Don't you know I would love to kiss someone who has obtained this as a cherished pass time. Maybe I'll start too!
To take this clump of tobacco, place it in the gum of the mouth to sit against the cheek or teeth, then to proceed to talk while this glob protrudes from the face, like a tumor, mumbling hardly understandable about how redneck some in the family is while spit is being flung out barely missing the person present immensely enjoying the conversation. Then once the wondrous flavor has vanished the saliva drenched black yuckiness that now looks like a bad case of bird diarrhea is launched with great thrust from the mouth hucked into the the nearest trash can, bottle, empty container, or better yet, onto the ground so that the next unsuspecting passer-byer steps into the lovely surprise.
So..... This dear fellow will grin about his successful thrusting tar infested missile revealing black grime caked upon his rotting teeth. What an endearing habit to obtain. Mmmmmm.... Don't you know I would love to kiss someone who has obtained this as a cherished pass time. Maybe I'll start too!
Ridiculous
What is worse than a flying pregnant hippo on steroids eating artificial multi-colored daisies about to come in for a landing near a Mongolian Buddhist school playground? - Boredom without ends and all the time in the world to think about how lonely and broken hearted you are.
Actually, I could probably come up with worse things than a lonely broken heart so maybe deciding the degree of discomfort is a fool-hearted attempt. But think of all the fun I could have deciding what is worse.
Like, an avalanche compacting into a huge snowball headed straight for Denver evolving to the rotating circumference of the Sears Tower traveling at the speed of a a Boeing 747 flattening everything in its path including small dogs and ugly cats. One can only imagine how it will destroy the downtown skyscrapers, airport, and golf resorts. - But don't you agree a wondering heart searching for her long lost love is worst than an enormous over sized snowball.
November 13, 2006
A beautiful day has abound the valley filled with warmth and light. As the sun +should be setting in rolls great gray clouds form the west filling the horizon. Starting as distant shadows then spreading out to irrepressible weight then conquering blackness consumes the valley. The rains start as a trickle evolving to a hammering strike. The thunder rumbles. The lightning illuminates the skies. The wind, she is filled with sorrow, wails at the trees and mountains. With her cries she summons the cold winter chill.
An hour later the battle is over. No harm has been committed. The storms have moved on, but the winter chill is unrelenting. She continues to leave her mark.
By the following morning the gloominess has made himself comfortable among the mountains. With the gloom sleet and snow have been beckoned. While keeping each other company, the town hibernates to avoid the un-welcomed guests. The gloom and the chill rest their weary forms with the anticipation of sun poking his smiling face.
The valley is lifeless. No one will stir. The occasional body to attempts to flee the fury of the wind seeking shelter from the task in need. Loneliness inhabits the streets, the yards, the parks, and sidewalks. There are no sounds besides the howling wind, which possesses a moment of nothing. Nothing is all within existence.
After a full day's captivity within my home, I prepare for a venture to the outer world amongst the cold windy loneliness. Bundled from head to toe I break loose into the night. No sooner am I free in the open then the wind grabs me to be suspended in air unable to move forward. I press by body forced myself to the unknown destination. It is not important. I must keep moving. I cross the street. I hug the buildings as my bodyguards from the wind. The wind whips through my clothes. It is as if I have no muscles or skin or flesh. I am merely bones as a chime for the blowing air.
The task is futile. The wind and the cold are winning. I am no match for their harshness. They laugh at my efforts sending me back for my failure. I trek through mounds of leaves making my retreat. I feel defeated and weak for surrender. The rustling leaves escort me home as the only sound breaking my loneliness.
An hour later the battle is over. No harm has been committed. The storms have moved on, but the winter chill is unrelenting. She continues to leave her mark.
By the following morning the gloominess has made himself comfortable among the mountains. With the gloom sleet and snow have been beckoned. While keeping each other company, the town hibernates to avoid the un-welcomed guests. The gloom and the chill rest their weary forms with the anticipation of sun poking his smiling face.
The valley is lifeless. No one will stir. The occasional body to attempts to flee the fury of the wind seeking shelter from the task in need. Loneliness inhabits the streets, the yards, the parks, and sidewalks. There are no sounds besides the howling wind, which possesses a moment of nothing. Nothing is all within existence.
After a full day's captivity within my home, I prepare for a venture to the outer world amongst the cold windy loneliness. Bundled from head to toe I break loose into the night. No sooner am I free in the open then the wind grabs me to be suspended in air unable to move forward. I press by body forced myself to the unknown destination. It is not important. I must keep moving. I cross the street. I hug the buildings as my bodyguards from the wind. The wind whips through my clothes. It is as if I have no muscles or skin or flesh. I am merely bones as a chime for the blowing air.
The task is futile. The wind and the cold are winning. I am no match for their harshness. They laugh at my efforts sending me back for my failure. I trek through mounds of leaves making my retreat. I feel defeated and weak for surrender. The rustling leaves escort me home as the only sound breaking my loneliness.
Stick it
I have decided the concept of "Sticking it to the man" is not possible. "The Man" must be a butthead to the "Little Guy" for there to be order. Instead, I will become a hermit living off the land and making cave art. Perhaps my cave art will be discovered. The carbon-dating will record inaccurately leading people to believe the cave art is prehistoric. I could be famous.
However, if I take credit for the work the public will know it is phony.
I will become Amish and build rocking chairs.
However, if I take credit for the work the public will know it is phony.
I will become Amish and build rocking chairs.
To love
I often wonder if we ever listen to one of the many songs we enjoy at the exact same moment while distances apart. Do you capture the same meaning I receive from the words and notes revolving as if speaking to us directly? Do you sit back strumming practicing the precise moment I am hum the words we know together? I can hear you hands playing to my subconscious. There are new songs as strangers to your ears that have been old friends of mine that I want to share.
Though other women may welcome you with bare skin I am the only one who understands your soul. This truth I believe only you possess for me as well looking deep beyond the face. I carry your mark. Every time I stare into the mirror I am reminded of how I have been spotted by each day spent with you. There there are the photos of our life with the caption of how we were snickering at what we are. Each captured moment is a mockery of what I cannot be and powerless to reverse it. I turn my cheek to take the hit as an encouragement for me to let go. Some thoughts, memories, feelings I relinquish. Others I bury deep inside to never release.
Though other women may welcome you with bare skin I am the only one who understands your soul. This truth I believe only you possess for me as well looking deep beyond the face. I carry your mark. Every time I stare into the mirror I am reminded of how I have been spotted by each day spent with you. There there are the photos of our life with the caption of how we were snickering at what we are. Each captured moment is a mockery of what I cannot be and powerless to reverse it. I turn my cheek to take the hit as an encouragement for me to let go. Some thoughts, memories, feelings I relinquish. Others I bury deep inside to never release.
Cherri-o
Have you ever wanted to talk with an accent. Like, with a British accent trying to throw words like knickers and ballocks into a sentence as often as possible. Or in a German accent shouting out "Nine!" or "Schitzer!" My aunt, by marriage, is half Polish. I always loved hearing her pronounce her mother's maiden name. Gishscrimski. She knew just how to make her r's roll off the tongue. Gishscrrrrrrimski. It always made me want to talk like Sophia in Sophie's Choice.
I am not sure what it is about Boone, but it seems to attract many British and German descents. I just helped a woman, originally from Britain now living here, wearing fancy looking galoshes (the British always have a wonderful collection of shoes). She made me want to declare, "Oh Ballocks! I'm dreadfully bored. I'm going out in my knickers and boots romping in the puddles. What a fancy jolly time I'll have." Or maybe some customer will ask me if I can help them where upon I will scream, "Nine! Nine! Schitzer! Gitt owt!"
In past jobs I use to pretend I was Irish or Swedish to fight boredom. Maybe I should try something completely different. I will try to learn a Kenyan or South Korean accent. Not North Korean. No one would appreciate my efforts. I think North Korea is trying to blow us up.
I am not sure what it is about Boone, but it seems to attract many British and German descents. I just helped a woman, originally from Britain now living here, wearing fancy looking galoshes (the British always have a wonderful collection of shoes). She made me want to declare, "Oh Ballocks! I'm dreadfully bored. I'm going out in my knickers and boots romping in the puddles. What a fancy jolly time I'll have." Or maybe some customer will ask me if I can help them where upon I will scream, "Nine! Nine! Schitzer! Gitt owt!"
In past jobs I use to pretend I was Irish or Swedish to fight boredom. Maybe I should try something completely different. I will try to learn a Kenyan or South Korean accent. Not North Korean. No one would appreciate my efforts. I think North Korea is trying to blow us up.
Boone, North Carolina
Like the winter waters, I keep moving with coldness searching for a source to enter. Like the barren mountains stripped of leaves exposed to the wind I feel naked with an emptiness, a melancholy, wishing for the day of spring to cover and protect. Like the winter chill bringing snow and rains I wonder aimlessly with gifts to offer, undesired to anyone because the love has grown cold, jaded, and rigid.
I have not yet made my opinion of these North Carolinian mountains. They are strange to me, but also enticing. With the grandeur of the peaks while streams cascade down she seems mysterious and elusive. However, the weather she calls upon seems ready for revenge for a debt unpaid in the days of old. With vengeance the wind rips through the valley determined to isolate the freeze within every body. The wind demands respect with control able to weaken any creature that acts out of disobedience.
The valley of Boone seems to have me wrapped within her allure puppeting my emotions to the sequence of her movements. My temperament is decided upon her whim. On particularly cold and solemn days I can feel my soul giving into her bitterness. I become reclusive and irritable. I loose patience for my environment and disdain envelopes me to becoming unrecognizably quiet. Then the sun returns revealing his smirking face warming the air beckoning a new tide of hope and renewal. A new surge of patience abounds feeling the strength continue with a stamina of hope acting as my companion.
I have not yet made my opinion of these North Carolinian mountains. They are strange to me, but also enticing. With the grandeur of the peaks while streams cascade down she seems mysterious and elusive. However, the weather she calls upon seems ready for revenge for a debt unpaid in the days of old. With vengeance the wind rips through the valley determined to isolate the freeze within every body. The wind demands respect with control able to weaken any creature that acts out of disobedience.
The valley of Boone seems to have me wrapped within her allure puppeting my emotions to the sequence of her movements. My temperament is decided upon her whim. On particularly cold and solemn days I can feel my soul giving into her bitterness. I become reclusive and irritable. I loose patience for my environment and disdain envelopes me to becoming unrecognizably quiet. Then the sun returns revealing his smirking face warming the air beckoning a new tide of hope and renewal. A new surge of patience abounds feeling the strength continue with a stamina of hope acting as my companion.
24.11.06
Thanksgiving's Thanks
What does this holiday mean to people? Does its meaning still fit its title?
It is typically the one holiday family members will go out of their way to gather around the table to endure each other's company long enough to fulfill the year's family obligation while stuffing one's self with food of the most fattening kind.
There is no holiday songs like the Fourth or Christmas. No holiday candy or parties like Halloween or New Year's. The only true recognition Thanksgiving makes is it marks the beginning of Christmas shopping the day after with Black Friday. The day is loosing its respect by most major retail remaining open on what should still be a family day. Soon all luxury will be lost where everyone will be open for business voiding any sacredness.
Thanksgiving, as a small child, I must admit holds little memory for me. However, in my teenage years through college it holds more meaning. Somehow my family on my mother's side started meeting at my grandparents' time-sharing in Gatlinburg. There Granny would prepare her finest meals of every delicious kind. Then we spent the remainder of the evening recovering from bloated bellies by surrounding the fireplace or adjourning to the hot tub. The following day we rarely went shopping just because the Black Friday in Gatlinburg, particularly in Pigeon Forge, is hell on earth. Wall to wall traffic inhabiting the biggest rednecks. Instead, my family usually endured the traffic long enough to reach Chimney Rock Trail- 2 miles up to wonderful views of the Smokies Mountains.
In more recent years it was decided that Granny worked herself too hard with preparation and it would be easier for her to remain in Nashville, which has been a good experience as well. Usually someone is invited as a guest, whether present boyfriend/girlfriend or friend. It is a time for the extended family to catch up on personal events and any other current event topics. Thanks to my cousin Brook and her studies in psychology we always have the pleasure of hearing new current psycho research. Thanks to my aunt's interest in the environment we are drawn into political debates. And thanks to my father and uncle no one is allowed to take themselves seriously. Since my family encompasses several different religious and political and social views conversations are always lively with intrigue and edginess. The conversations are what I am thankful for because we do not take the disagreements personally.
This year however will be very different for all my family. It will be the first time we have come together since my grandfather's death in January and it will be our first Thanksgiving without him at the head of the table. I will admit I will not miss walking on eggshells about topics of discussion in his presence, but knowing there is an empty chair will be hard to accept. His abstinence, his hardheaded opinions, and his laughter will be greatly missed.
So yes, Thanksgiving does have true meaning for me. I am thankful for my family and the time I have to spend with them.
It is typically the one holiday family members will go out of their way to gather around the table to endure each other's company long enough to fulfill the year's family obligation while stuffing one's self with food of the most fattening kind.
There is no holiday songs like the Fourth or Christmas. No holiday candy or parties like Halloween or New Year's. The only true recognition Thanksgiving makes is it marks the beginning of Christmas shopping the day after with Black Friday. The day is loosing its respect by most major retail remaining open on what should still be a family day. Soon all luxury will be lost where everyone will be open for business voiding any sacredness.
Thanksgiving, as a small child, I must admit holds little memory for me. However, in my teenage years through college it holds more meaning. Somehow my family on my mother's side started meeting at my grandparents' time-sharing in Gatlinburg. There Granny would prepare her finest meals of every delicious kind. Then we spent the remainder of the evening recovering from bloated bellies by surrounding the fireplace or adjourning to the hot tub. The following day we rarely went shopping just because the Black Friday in Gatlinburg, particularly in Pigeon Forge, is hell on earth. Wall to wall traffic inhabiting the biggest rednecks. Instead, my family usually endured the traffic long enough to reach Chimney Rock Trail- 2 miles up to wonderful views of the Smokies Mountains.
In more recent years it was decided that Granny worked herself too hard with preparation and it would be easier for her to remain in Nashville, which has been a good experience as well. Usually someone is invited as a guest, whether present boyfriend/girlfriend or friend. It is a time for the extended family to catch up on personal events and any other current event topics. Thanks to my cousin Brook and her studies in psychology we always have the pleasure of hearing new current psycho research. Thanks to my aunt's interest in the environment we are drawn into political debates. And thanks to my father and uncle no one is allowed to take themselves seriously. Since my family encompasses several different religious and political and social views conversations are always lively with intrigue and edginess. The conversations are what I am thankful for because we do not take the disagreements personally.
This year however will be very different for all my family. It will be the first time we have come together since my grandfather's death in January and it will be our first Thanksgiving without him at the head of the table. I will admit I will not miss walking on eggshells about topics of discussion in his presence, but knowing there is an empty chair will be hard to accept. His abstinence, his hardheaded opinions, and his laughter will be greatly missed.
So yes, Thanksgiving does have true meaning for me. I am thankful for my family and the time I have to spend with them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)