I love Thanksgiving. The Harvest. Fall.
The frivolity of summer, scampering around in flip flops, long shadows embracing the hills while a slow sunset after the evening meal draws the day to a close. That’s a joy.
But then there is the crispness in the air when tired leaves put up a fight of red and orange before falling to the ground shriveled and dried. Darkness comes quickly, before dinner.
“Is it 10 o’clock?”
“No, it’s 7:30.”
We shut the windows, draw the curtains and build a fire in the fireplace. Out come the afghans and quilts to drape over the sofa and armchairs. Launched by trick-or-treaters distracted by having to wear sweaters over their costumes, Fall hides on the occasional hot, sunny days, then sneaks out at night when wind and moonlight drop the temperature way down at night Chill. Can’t wait to run the oven for six hours and cook the bird.
The smell of the cooking turkey is the culmination of the other Fall smells – chimneys, the last summer tomatoes and eggplant sizzling in olive oil, cinnamon, pies. The pan drippings, the salty crunch of a bite of skin, the perfection of the first slice, the crazy caveman bite into the drumstick. Then the huge wishbone. The huge wishes of Fall.
Almost at the end of another year.
“Where did this year go?”
“I know, I know.”
Stuffed with stuffing, snuggling under the blankets, listening for the furnace to kick on. Dreaming of pumpkin pie for breakfast.
Ringgggggg! It’s 3 a.m. – time to shop! Christmas, Christmas, Christmas! Doorbusters! Half off! Hurry, hurry, wait in line. Circle to find a parking place. Lights on the houses!
Blow-up Snowmen on the lawn! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph blinking in wire next to the driveway.
And Fall gets slapped in the face. Pumpkins and Indian corn get dumped and out come the flashy, glittery wreaths, fake snow, fake trees, fake smiles, fake joy to the world.
Before the turkey soup is even cooked, we plan for the goose and ham.
I propose that we give Fall a more decent burial. Give Thanksgiving Day an extra few hours and let Black Friday become Brown Friday and Black Saturday. Sleep in. Take a last look at the leaves, split open the pumpkins by the front door and scoop out the seeds to bake with oil and seasoned salt. Cook the pulp and make one more pie. Make a sandwich with the last of the gravy. Let Fall drift down like the fat maple leaves and have a day to say Goodbye.
