Mercidonnant

STIPIMM: “Sailor’s Hornpipe,” traditional

Thanksgiving is an unusual holiday for an agnostic to celebrate. After all, to give thanks implies that there is someone or something to give thanks to. Without that, Thanksgiving boils down to sitting around and reveling in your luck – luck that you weren’t born poor; luck that you are healthy; luck that were born with the capacity to build skills and knowledge that allow you to earn a regular wage that leaves some left over for luxuries once all the bills are paid; luck that family members are still alive; luck that you stumbled upon someone who understands you and is willing to tolerate you for the rest of your lives. Thankgiving’s mascots are still the Pilgrims and the Indians, only now it’s the Pilgrims sitting at a craps table at an Indian casino.

But despite my lack of connection to the idea, I do like Thanksgiving, just as I like Christmas and don’t subscribe to virgin births (be it Leda or Mary), even if the former holiday represents the last moment of comity between whites and Indians for hundreds of years.

That said, Thanksgivings, on the whole, don’t stand out in my memory so well. All the Thanksgivings spent in San Angelo or Mustang kind of blend into one. There are a few notable exceptions:

-- In either 1999 or 2000, I spent Thanksgiving with the extended family of a friend in Virginia. What was most memorable was not the food, but the older couple who railed on Bill and Hillary Clinton for most of the meal. “They’re evil. Evil!” was one enlightened gem. I almost bit my tongue as much as I did my turkey.

-- Last year’s Thanksgiving was truly something special for both Bridget and I, as both our immediate families all got together and squished into our apartment for Thanksgiving weekend. Now, it wasn’t the most exciting of festivities – none of us are very wild people – but it was quite wonderful to have everyone there.

-- On Thanksgiving 1994, I was in Paris, France, taking part in a year-long academic program sponsored by an American university. There isn’t even a word in French for “Thanksgiving,” and the fourth Thursday in November is just like any other Jeudi for Parisians. And so, with this American holiday in our heads, our program arranged for all of the students to get together in a nice restaurant and be treated to a full Thanksgiving meal – turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (not canned!), stuffing, the works. The restaurant did a superb job of preparing the meal – indeed, it was some of the best damn turkey I’ve ever had (part of that surely is the proud feeling that an American living in Paris would get in celebrating an American holiday abroad). And the addition of good French wine didn’t hurt either. Two of my best friends in town, Stacey and Susan, were seated with me at the dinner, and we had a grand old time. After the meal, we sat around writing dirty limericks about each other and people we knew. A strange way to give thanks, perhaps, but one of the best.