Thanks Living

                             Swing the shining sickle      

                             Cut the ripened grain,

                             Flash it in the sunlight,

                             Swing it once again,

                             Tie the golden grain-heads

                             Into shining sheaves,

                             Beautiful their colors

                            As the autumn leaves.

                           From “Thanksgiving Day is Here,” by Alice C. D. Riley and Jesse I. Gaynor

There are few songs that are written for Thanksgiving Day. The one above was taught to school children in the 1950’s and 1960’s. I don’t think it’s used much now. For one thing, today’s children think of sheaves as a decoration and do not connect it to how corn used to be harvested. I live near a mega farm, and the machinery comes in and chomps up everything in its path, harvesting, shucking, and leaving behind very little. Nothing that could be made into a sheaf, that’s for certain.

But just because the harvest has changed does not mean the spirit of Thanksgiving should. Many things change over time, even the supposed history of the friendship between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans. The history I was taught is different from the history my grandchildren are given. 

So, where are we with Thanksgiving? To put it bluntly, it is what you make it. The government gave us a day to give thanks. We remember the Pilgrims because fifty-seven of one hundred and two passengers lived. They got their legs under them, moved forward from the horrors of their trip and first winter, and learned to thrive. They were imperfect beings from countries where wars over land were the order of the day. They did not know how to assimilate. Whatever mutual friendship with Native Americans helped with their survival, they had no understanding of how to live with others. Their king would not have let them set sail had they not been clear on the need to make the New World a copy of the Old World. They buried their dead on Cole’s Hill and survived. And they were thankful for what they had, instead of collapsing in sorrow from what they had not.

That is possibly the lesson. We have all become survivors of a pandemic. We have all buried our dead. We have not yet learned to appreciate varied culture and assimilate our pasts into our present, but many have at least seen the light in knowing that all men are of the same blood. The Pilgrims did not know that they and Native Americans were sharers in the human blood line, but we do. Those who are given a blood transfusion seldom ask for a pedigree, so the lesson is in some nether region of all minds.

Our survival should teach us something. The food on our plates should make us thankful. Just because seed time and harvest are not common in our own lives, the golden grains and red-wattled turkeys are evidence of our bounty.  Only four of the married women who set sail on the Mayflower survived to cook a meal. If we are cooking for Thanksgiving then thanks is, indeed, on the table. 

Giving thanks on Thursday needs to translate into giving thanks on Friday and the days beyond. If a material trinket we wanted to give for Christmas isn’t available, if the boat from China is still in China, if the shipping container does not dock until February, then we should still let our thanksgiving continue. We, like those before us, survived. Like the Pilgrims, there are many who will celebrate Thanksgiving with only the clothing on their backs. We have suffered more than a pandemic. Fires, floods, storms, addictions, and status as a refugee have taken everything from many. Take this common meal, bow your heads, give thanks, and mean it. For you who are alive can build a future. Even if there is not a song for it.