November 29, 2015
The turkey is now a dwindling cache of leftovers. A slice of pie or two remains in the refrigerator. The last, persistent relative has cleared out of the guest room. Thanksgiving is a memory, a blurring collection of noise, arguments, football, arguments about football, and overindulgence.
That about sum it up for you?
It doesn’t paint a truly accurate portrait of my Thanksgiving, but I’m invoking my poetic license. See, right there under the big print that says “WRITER” the license reads “May make shit up.”
I’m thankful for that, among other things. Hasn’t been a bad year, to be honest. I can be truly thankful. I’m thankful for you readers. I’d be thankful for more of you, of course, but go too far down that road and you get run over by ingratitude. I’m thankful for all those who’ve bought “Under Strange Suns” and “Reunion.” I’m thankful for my publisher taking a risk on a minor scribbler of short stories (though I suppose that should be in last year’s collection of thanks.) I’m thankful for a wife who understands my need to, once per day, disappear inside my head while sitting at the keyboard. I’m thankful for a squealing, laughing daughter (though the onset of the Terrible Twos has a tendency to temper that thanks from time to time.)
I’m thankful for the power company. It’s bone-chilling outside. Clear and beautiful, but frigid. I saw a couple of polar bears eying parkas in a department store window. I’m thankful for beer. That, I suppose, should go without saying, but I’m saying it anyway. Hail Ninkasi, doff your cap to King Gambrinus. I’m thankful the price of gasoline dipped this year. I’m thankful the books I enjoyed reading this year outnumbered those that disappointed.
Not a bad year, with one month left to go.
What about you? What ratcheted up your gratitude meter?