Another Thanksgiving

Christmas trumps Thanksgiving in my childhood memories. It was the prelude for the glorious days of lights and songs that culminated in the grand finale, my birthday. As I’ve matured, I’ve learned to share the day with Jesus. As I have been trying to recall my earliest memory of Thanksgiving, however, I just don’t seem to go as far back into my childhood. I know there must have been feasts in which I partook, but the day just isn’t as sensational as the ones to follow. The Thanksgiving that stands out most clearly was in 1963, just six days after President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. We drove to Burlington, Colorado to be with Uncle Dale’s family, and the grief was palpable. My staunch Republican family was no lover of the Kennedy's. Indeed, many were the discussions that derided and demeaned the aristocratic air of the clan that had defeated Nixon in 1960. But the killing of the President was ghastly unthinkable and lent new significance to a day set aside to be grateful. It’s hard for me to believe that forty-six years have passed, years that have been filled with the love of family and friends. I reiterate once more than no person alive is more blessed than I. As with so many things, Thanksgiving is not the end but the beginning.