Thanksgiving has a pretty well-established routine around my house. There has been minimal variation in it for about thirty years. My wife is a night shift nurse who typically works on or around holidays, so the ritual is that I cook and the family eats. Some of you might favor the argument that this is a pretty awful deal for me. But I am delighted with our arrangement. I love the stability. We could go so far as to say I am Thankful for it.
I vastly prefer my routine to the madcap carrying on of the 1960s on Boston’s Beacon Hill when, while interesting, Thanksgiving could be a madcap exploration of the bizarre. Or the later staid experiences along the coast of Maine, where Thanksgiving was a somber affair under the stewardship of the Cap’n – my first father-in-law. The former experiences were one crazed nutty experience after the other, and the latter was its serious reflection in a strange mirror.
Things didn’t settle in until I married my wonderful night shift nurse, and we began to create stability out of the chaos.
A type of lotto game originated among Chinese working in the gold fields called Packapoo Ticket. The game was popular from Australian Gold workings to California. Twenty Chinese characters are on each card, each a potential winner or loser. But, of course, only the creator of the pack of tickets knows the winning character. There is a lot to be said about excitement in life. And a lot to be said for new experiences. But life as an ongoing Lotto game wears on you.
So I am about to prep the birdie, make the stuffing, and get the sweet potatoes ready. Happy Thanksgiving.