The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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Every Thanksgiving — without fail — our little nuclear unit would belly up to a dining room table loaded to the ceiling fan with a banquet Mom had slaved for two days to cook …. And we’d wait for the Old Man to raise a glass in toast. He’d give a short somewhat sincere thanks, and then he’d ask his predictable, inevitable question, the one his mother asked every Thanksgiving up in the most economically depressed region in Northern Maine where we all were born: “I wonder what the poor folks are doing today?”

You want to put a dull edge on the carving knife, I can’t think of a much quicker way. I know most of us this year would be a lot more thankful if the impeachment hearings were over and the mudslinging and the distortions were put aside for, oh, a few days before the 2020 election cycle dominates our table talk and the interminable TV and radio politics could be blessedly replaced by pharmaceutical and car and deodorant commercials and we could just return to our dreary monsoonal lives of quiet desperation. Be nice to just ratchet down the angst and the anger and just start shopping for Christmas. Or we could maybe hibernate a bit. I know, fat chance.

But my Grandma, bless her kindly heart, was right to worry about those less fortunate, even though she wasn’t all that fortunate herself. Not by our modern standards that we simply take for granted as our God given American right. A full belly can lead pretty quick to tryptophanic complacency for most of us these days.

So when you say a prayer this Thanksgiving or make a toast over that fine Chablis and dive in for seconds on the turkey dressing, leave a little room. Not just for the desserts but for the folks who might be eating alone, who might not have much to eat, who might not have a lot to be thankful for. After all, they’re part of the family too.

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