The Best of It by Jamie Kirkpatrick

Thanksgiving—the holiday now more formally known as Black Friday Eve—is almost upon us. This year, however, a traditional Thanksgiving celebration would likely make even Norman Rockwell cringe. No grandparents or hardly any family gathered around a groaning board, just a tiny frozen turkey and only a sorry side or two. Sigh. I imagine the wee wife and I will be dining entre nous on simple fare while contemplating how to legally loot our local box store. Virtually, of course, unless we get really crazy and opt for contactless curbside pickup.

Back in the day (What day was that? Tuesday? Saturday? Who can tell the difference anymore?), Thanksgiving was a big deal. It was warm and friendly, relatively uncommercial, touch football and turkey, then the real thing—the NFL: the Detroit Lions playing somebody. That was a far cry from the first Thanksgiving, that fairytale feast when John and Goodwife Priscilla invited Squanto and his mates over for a gala dinner. (Given the history of the white settlement of this continent, I’ve grown so skeptical of this version of the story that I’m almost loathe to perpetuate it here; think of it as but a momentary literary device.) As the years rolled by, our Thanksgiving fantasies gathered strength until, as recently as just last year, a President who is best known for firing people, stunningly agreed to do something that his evil predecessor did: he pardoned some turkeys. But this year, it’s different; I’m told he may choose to slaughter the poor birds and pardon himself!

But I digress. This year, there’s an uninvited guest at our tables, one who looks like Shrek and acts even worse. Institutions as august as the CDC are pleading with us not to invite Uncle Ned and Aunt Polly and our cousins from Winnetka and, instead, stay within our own impermeable little family bubbles. For the wee wife who has eight siblings and countless nieces, nephews, and in-laws, the CDC guidelines almost amount to a death sentence which is exactly what it would be if we followed tradition and went to someone’s house with forty-three of our closest relatives. Sorry, honey, not this year.

The question then becomes, “How should we celebrate Thanksgiving this year?” I have a friend in town, a gracious restaurateur who annually provides a free feast at his fine establishment to those in need, who must be asking himself that very question. It’s a conundrum, for sure. Celebrating family and friends without either present poses a problem that even the most altruistic among us finds difficult to solve. It’s hard to pass the dinner rolls to one’s self.

Well, as the saying goes, we’ll get through this, but honestly, that’s pretty thin gruel on this year’s Thanksgiving table. Still, if we really are to slay the beast, we must respect it enough to practice delaying the gratification of even our most hallowed traditions. I’m not suggesting that we dispense with Thanksgiving all together this year, let’s just Zoom it. And when Uncle Ned spills gravy down the front of his shirt, politely look away and make the best of it, the way you always do.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. Two collections of his essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”) are available on Amazon. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com