We’ve made cardboard cutouts of all you family members so that Mary and I can be infused with the familial glow that has been so much a part of this holiday over the years. And we’ve added some canned laughter that she will activate whenever I give the signal, taking care that the crescendo does not drown out my punch lines.
And speaking of punch, there isn’t any, but we’ve got plenty of whine, and some harder stuff too, including Dour’s Scotch, a fitting spirit, you’ll agree, for this restive day.
You may wonder what we’re planning on having. Bored-out-of-our squash, I hear, is on the menu, as are cloisters Rockefeller, blahbster Newburg, corn fretters, turkey, of course — I’ve dibsed the humdrumsticks — and baked Alaska, all topped off with a solitary confine mint or two.
Just kidding. Still, it seems a bit strange that there won’t be this year a mass gathering at our house — just Mary and me and O’en, which is fine, for things have gone pretty much swimmingly chez nous during these past eight semi-sequestered months, most of which I’ve spent on the dole. I will raise a glass to Mary and O’en, my chief blessings, today, and to the New York State Labor Department’s Robert Carlson and Jesus Diaz of the Patchogue office, who have seen me through my furlough.
It is interesting, however, that, at 80, one who has been employed full time ever since college, was told after 10 weeks of having received benefits to seek work, which, dutifully, I have, though, admittedly, in a desultory fashion. Once I had exhausted the papers on the Island, I was going to write the People’s Daily, care of the Central Committee, but a rehire date obviated that.
It occurs to me that there is much not to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, which is why I’m all the more grateful for being able to share it with Mary, my chief blessing, and O’en. The table will be set, we — er, the candles — will be lit, and we’ll dress up, as if normality has resumed.
And, in the meanwhile, there’s Zoom.