Happy Thanksgiving

What a strange “holiday” this is. Of course, the practice of giving thanks for a successful harvest goes back millennia and exists in multiple cultures around the globe. It was a perfectly good reason to give thanks for centuries.

It all went to shit a bit in 1621 when the Pilgrims threw a party for the native people who’d helped them learn how to survive in their new home.

How sweet is that? Bastards. (And, yes, Pilgrims, I’m looking at you when I say that.)

Over the past century it’s evolved in Canada (in October) and in the USA (in November) into a festival of overindulgence. Turkeys are cooked, yams are roasted, pumpkins are turned into pies (a dessert I’ve never, ever understood). Families gather together to stuff themselves. People use it as an excuse to get out of panto rehearsals.

I don’t get it. There are any number of reasons for this. For one thing, it’s not part of my British origin story. For another, I have no immediate family left and no living relatives who aren’t thousands of miles away (and wouldn’t be celebrating Thanksgiving anyway).  Most people in Canada and the USA live in cities and get their food from supermarkets. They are no more in touch with heartfelt gratitude for a successful harvest than they are with the man in the moon. Sheesh.

One of the supposed objectives of Thanksgiving is to take the time to recognise your blessings. Okay, I don’t have to be a complete curmudgeon. Here goes.

I am thankful for the roof over my head. I love my house, I really do. With so many people in so many places living in insecure or substandard dwellings or having no home at all, I am lucky.

I am thankful for my friends Irmani, Krys and Catherine, all of whom take the trouble to travel long distances in order to visit me in my home. For someone living alone with a cat and a television for company, their visits are a great blessing.

I am thankful for my friend Donna, who, between plays, if she hasn’t heard from me for a while, will actually phone me to check in and see how I’m doing. I appreciate that. It lessens my dread of being dead for so long before someone notices that by the time my body is discovered I have been half eaten by a starving cat. (A bit bleak, I know, but true.)

And I am thankful that it really hasn’t been a struggle to succeed in the challenge I gave myself six weeks ago to write something – anything – every day. Yes, that’s right, it’s Day 43 (an extra day due to the power outage last Sunday). I’ve done it.

Of course the Canadian election, the looming debacle of Brexit and the ongoing insanity of the current US president have all provided great fodder for regular rants. But even on days when I didn’t have anything particular to say I managed to write something.

I can give myself a pat on the back. And I don’t give myself a lot of pats on the back, so I’m grateful for that.

What now? Should I attempt to keep writing something – even if it is a tad boring – every day?

Well, folks, that’s kind of down to you. If hearing from me every day – even if it really is a tad boring – is something you find useful/stimulating/entertaining, now’s the time to use the Comments section and let me know.

TTFN.