Last year, I wrote about Thanksgiving. And I wrote about hunting and my grandparents and a miracle that happened at St. Therese's Church in Wilmington, Delaware, and being generous and Arlo Guthrie.
But this year, I want to talk about other things I still recall at Thanksgiving time from when I was a kid back in Smock.
Like the songs. Oh, we did Harvest Home and Now Thank We All Our God (written by one of the Luther Brothers; either Martin or Lex). But recently, I found myself humming a tune and then, quite suddenly, realized that it was one that my Mother used to sing during the Thanksgivings and Christmases of the 1960's. It was called "You Can't Be True Dear". Look it up. It was an old German song that Connie Francis and Patti Page doctored up and made very sad. And for my Mom, it was doubly sad since it was in the early 60's that we began to celebrate Thanksgiving without my Dad. He left us for someone else and so that very song was a pretty strong dose of reality.
It made me think of divorce back in Smock. You see, there wasn't any. NONE. I think that in those days, people worked hard to get along with their spouses and with their neighbors. Isn't it interesting that in today's society where divorce is over 50% that we still hear people harping about how "marriage is work"? Well they can harp all they want because its true. But why work knowing that work was usually hard and laziness is easy. And addictive.
On Sundays at St. Hedwig's, you could look around at all of the couples. Sure, they were there together every Sunday. John & Dorothy, Helen & Ted, Mike & Mary. And they worked hard at their jobs in the mine and the mill but they worked hard at their marriages. Even my uncle Mike and aunt Helen who I can't stand are celebrating something like 75 years of marriage, so they must be doing something right!
You can still drive through Smock and see the rather barren gardens that you see in late November, but during the summer, you can also see all of the work that was put into those wonderful vegetables and flowers.
Porches were literally scrubbed with detergent and hot water (which caused them to also be painted regularly). The concrete walkways were also scrubbed with the same stuff.
Now you can drive through Smock and see piles of garbage and old abandoned cars in some of the yards. Or the boxes of who knows what. Or the perpetual Christmas lights that go in and out of season each winter. These are the homes of the younger people who have taken up residence after people died or moved away. And the music in these homes has been replaced with constant fighting or the sound of video games.
So does this sound like a kid who lived in Smock that should be thankful this Thursday? I hope so. I'm thankful that there still remains some people who work in gardens or on their relationships. And I'm thankful for the peace that covers my little town after the shouting is over and the last Nosferatu is killed in Vampire Slayer III.
You see, I'm very thankful for the hope that someday, these new neighbors will want to ask why people smile so much while they're digging up their yards or why some folks still hold hands after 60 years of marriage. And along with the thanks, I'm also hopeful that the shouts of anger will someday become shouts of joy when their son or daughter gets a hit on the ball diamond that I played on when I was a kid. And hopeful that the kid calls the two adults in the stands Mom and Dad instead of Mom and (fill in any man's name here).
But I'm especially thankful that my 87 year old Mother doesn't have to sing "You Can't Be True Dear" any more.
I never thought that I'd be thankful for old age and forgetfulness but I surely am.
A Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
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