My usual turkey-day hi-jinks of reality, via Mr. Mark Twain:
“Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for–annually, not oftener–if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians.
Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man’s side, consequently on the Lord’s side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments.”
(Illustration: Pablo Picasso’s ‘The Frugal Meal’ found here).
Another Americana-inspired holiday filled with fat-asses and football on TV.
Longtime ago, my all-time, most-favorite poet, Miss Emily Dickinson, also knew this day was just another day in a series of days:
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum–
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room–
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
‘Twere Thanksgiving Day.
A small pebble, is now a huge boulder.