It is that time of the year again - it seems to appear every year at about this time, strangely enough. Every year! And, with twelve months to forget it, we seem to repeat the same ol' everything. This year, blog-wise, I offer something a little different.
If you prefer to read a more traditional Thanksgiving blog post, I offer this post from 2017 - which includes a top-notch dressing recipe, for those who indulge.
This year, it seems things are a lot different from other years. Many are happy. Many are sad. Some are angry. Some are hungry. Nothing can be fixed by a few words hastily read on an obscure blog. Thus, I shall attempt an entertainment.
On the Twitter regurgitation known as X (no relation to The X Files), I maintain an account. I have for years now dabbled in mindless pursuits - or mindful, as the case may be - mostly to fill a few minutes between more relevant activities. Lately, I've made more use of the platform as I go through my days. One thing that has been a constant are the so-called poetry accounts. These are entities that offer a prompt of one kind or another with the challenge to create a poem or other suitable expression using that prompt. It has been a fun exercise for me, often a way to poke my brain into thinking again during the dull hours of the day.
One of my favorites is the #vss365 community. The moniker stands for "very short story" 365 days of the year. The prompt is different each day and a new host provides prompts every week or two. I think the original idea came from Hemingway's famous six word story:
"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"
Some attribute it to earlier sources but Ernie has gotten the most hits for it. Nevertheless, with the Twitter limit of 240 characters (not words but characters, like individual letters, punctuation, and spaces) it becomes a bit challenging to say something meaningful in such a brief format. For this Thanksgiving, I decided to see what I've written and posted to the #vss365 channel over the years. (In recent times, there have also sprung forth other #vss channels such as #vsspoem, #vssdaily, #vsshorror, and so on. Something for everyone.)
With out further adieu, here are my Thanksgiving related #vss posts. The prompt word is marked with a hashtag.
With the right glue and some duct tape, Dr. Frank N. Stein was able to put the #parts together again after an amusing yet ultimately inappropriate Thanksgiving dinner with relatives.
Protagonist can't handle cheery Thanksgiving dinner he's been invited to, goes outside for some air, sees first snowflakes falling, thinks of his daughter(who died)'s first snowfall....
[not actually #vss but was in my files; it relates to the plot of my novel EXCHANGE*]
Thanksgiving #strike. Drove to neighborhood grocery for bread and deli turkey, jar of mayo, and bottle of pumpkin spice latte. Made a sandwich and checked that holiday off my list.
Every year I give thanks the Thanksgiving Day #parade doesn't involve me.
This year's Thanksgiving is like a #mosaic of every lucky turn we've managed to get.
Just that old #pigeon on the window sill, making noise. But we have each other this Thanksgiving.
Yes, he was full to bursting with Thanksgiving turkey and trimmings but #starved for attention sitting in the lounger in the corner. Someday that chair would be unoccupied.
The tryptophan worked, slept 12 hours, missed family drama.
-my #journal entry, Thanksgiving 2021
It's looking like I won't have any turkey for Thanksgiving. Should I #worry? Or just make a lot of side dishes?
I detect a theme. A lot of these Thanksgivings I was away from home and making do with what I had. I was living in a foreign country that did not do anything on that day, or I was away at university, as student or professor, and couldn't get home (often too close to the winter break to be worth making the round-trip). Not to worry. I got turkey whenever I really wanted it but it's not my favorite bird.
In my 19 novels (to date; one in progress), I found I'd included the Thanksgiving holiday in only two of them: A Beautiful Chill (2014) and Exchange (2020).
In the campus anti-romance, A BEAUTIFUL CHILL (set in 1999), professor Eric drives down to Texas for the holiday break to visit his elderly parents. It doesn't go well. He mopes about his grad student girlfriend (not his own student) and starts writing a Viking novel based on her.
In the crime thriller *EXCHANGE, the Thanksgiving scene is extensive and draws upon all the usual tropes of family and thankfulness - for a man who has lost his wife and daughter to a mass shooting. Then the expected exchange student arrives from China (Wendy) not knowing what has happened. Later in the story, she is invited to Thanksgiving dinner with her school friend whose mother also invites the man (Bill) who is her host.
Here is an excerpt. Bill, a high school English teacher, gets through the dinner but has to get up and go outside for a break from all the cheeriness. His widowed colleague, Jennifer, who was also invited, comes outdoors after him.
A hand
weighed on his shoulder. He turned, found Jennifer beside him, holding his
coat. He accepted it, pulled it on. She wore her coat but crossed her arms in
front of herself. She noticed it was snowing and gazed up, smiling.
“It’s
beautiful,” she spoke. “My favorite season.”
“Mine,
too.” He counted snowflakes. “Hey, I’m sorry if I came off as rude. You
understand, I’m sure, how it can be...being surrounded by so many people who
have not experienced trauma.”
“Yes, I
completely understand.” She gave him a grin. “And forgive me if I seemed too…I
don’t know, too cheery? They invited me a month ago. I didn’t know you were
coming. But it’s good you did. Get you out of the house. No moping around on a
social occasion.”
“Yeah,
social occasion. That’s it, all right.”
She asked
how he had been occupying himself during the semester and he retorted that he
was talking with Griffin’s wife, the psychologist, and giving a lot of free assistance
to the local police. She chuckled at his phraseology.
“I
brought Wendy over here just for a few days,” he said with more determination,
“because our house is…. There’s some punks trying to make it their playground.
I didn’t want her to be involved. I spent the past few days sitting inside,
waiting for them to try to break in again—”
“Or out
in the backyard, in the dark, waiting for them to arrive. Then I’d…” He raised
his hand like he held a pistol, then dropped his arm. “I would call the police,
like any rational citizen.”
“I’m
getting used to it. Always something to hassle with.”
“I’m
sorry, Bill. At least I never had that with Larry’s accident.”
“Well,
the police—detectives—they have everything under control, they say. They’re on
top of things. But, you know, if it takes twenty-five minutes to arrive at my
house after I call in a home invasion, then they are not quite on top of
things. More like on the side.”
Again she
laughed, touching his arm. He noticed her gesture and she saw that he noticed.
But she left her hand on his arm.
“I’m
thinking of moving to an apartment. Something small and cheap. That nobody
would think to break into because nothing of value would be there. I’ll sell
the house. Give everything away. Start a new life.” He had to stop. “Like
nothing ever hap—”
“Happened.
I know what you mean. All the what-ifs….” She took his arm in hers, leaned
against him like she was cold. “It’s easy to want to try and pretend it never
happened. But there are still memories we want. So we don’t really want life to
be as though nothing happened.”
Bill
gazed at her, saw a kind face staring back. “You’re right.”
“Those
memories…. They continue to exist in you. You’ll always have Becky doing her
thing, and Barbara doing what she does. Don’t give that up just to be without
the pain.”
“You’re
right,” he mumbled, turning on the front stoop, ready to head inside. “I guess
I’ll go back in.”
“And your
guest. Wendy is so lovely. Smart, talented, pretty. It would be easy to become
enamored by her.”
Bill
grabbed the door handle, opened the glass door, reached for the door knob of
the wooden door, leaving Jennifer outside.
“Sorry,”
he called, pushing the glass door back open for her.
“Let’s
see what the others are doing.”
The scene continues a little more. But the idea should be clear: memories. That's what Thanksgiving is really about. Making memories. Then remembering them. Comparing them without judging them. And those memories are like handcuffs that link people together. It isn't so much what may or may not have happened long ago or what those people back then ate or who they invited to the feast. It is about family, whatever that may constitute for each of us.
I wish each of you a day of glad tidings and an easy return to the mundane matters of the Monday that follows. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!
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(C) Copyright 2010-2024 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog.
Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.
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