On Nov. 26, millions of Americans will crowd around millions of tables to tuck into a dinner of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and, of course, a healthy helping or seven of mashed potatoes. Sometime during the course of dinner, someone at each of those tables will invariably say, “Hey, why don’t we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for?” They’ll say it as if it’s a novel, innovative idea, even though everyone in America has gone through the routine at every Thanksgiving dinner since the Pilgrims sat down with the Wampanoags in 1621.
It’s a trite practice, often filled with canned responses and teenage eye-rolling. And I love it. It’s an integral, beautiful part of American culture, earnest and Rockwellesque. So, clichéd as it may be, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to take this opportunity to let you all know just what it is I’m thankful for this fall.
I’m thankful for faces covered in mud and fingers frozen stiff from a March day spent making sure the fields are ready for planting, because—surely—spring is just around the corner.
I’m thankful for the dust that gets in your teeth and ears and eyes a few weeks later as those fields are plowed and planted.
I’m thankful for the 15 minutes it takes the old farm truck to warm up on an October morning that brings the frost a week earlier than you had expected, and for the herculean effort it takes to find second gear in said truck.
For the prayers offered at the apex of a seemingly endless drought, and for the chance to dance in the downpour than inevitably comes, arms outstretched and goofy grin pointing heavenward.
For a handshake that means something.
For LaCrosse boots and Wells Lamont gloves and Wrangler jeans.
For the border collie perched on the back of the four-wheeler.
For the familiar warmth in the voice of a barely competent announcer at a small-town rodeo.
For the neighbor who stops by—without being summoned—with a spotlight to help fix a busted digger link in the middle of the field two hours after dark.
For grandmas who demand good table manners no matter how dusty their diners are or how late the kitchen is open.
For mashed and baked and french fried and au gratin, for gravy and sour cream and fry sauce.
For dirt that never quite escapes its prison under your fingernails.
For George Strait, John Stockton and Robert Duvall; for Winston Churchill, Dr. Seuss and Walt Disney.
For the sweat stinging an FFA jacket-clad teenager’s eyes as he fights to keep a tired show steer in line on a 98-degree day at the county fair.
For the muley doe and her two fawns cutting across the potato field at sunrise, and that split second you make eye contact with her and can’t help muttering reassuringly, “You’re all right, sister.”
For impromptu games of one-on-one on the old hoop over the shop door, where the old Massey 175 serves as one sideline and a neatly stacked pile of handlines acts as the other. For a grandpa who comes out to tell you to get back to work, but only after he nails an 18-footer without even taking off his gloves.
For calluses and cracked skin and a thumbnail turned purple from being smashed mere seconds after the words “Do you think we should tie this down?” are uttered.
I’m indescribably thankful for a wife and family who always have my back, for parents who continue to disseminate wisdom, and for a God who, busy as He is, always has time to listen.
There. Glad I got that off my chest. That ought to fill my quota for the next few Thanksgivings, right?