I rarely spend the fourth Thursday in November with immediate family. That being said, my cup of Deo gratias runneth over. In many ways.
I give thanks for my "newer" friends in Coal Country. Many of them, thinking I had no table at which to sit, have invited me for Thanksgiving. Thanks to my cousins, I do have a place to sit. And gather. And enjoy. No, I still cannot stomach red-beet eggs. Maybe I'll come around on this.
Add cousins: earlier this year, I met—for the first time—a veritable army of more Hollerans, including another Timothy. I'm glad no one calls him "Ace." I know what you readers are thinking: Too many Hollerans in one place is a recipe for disaster. Relax. The cousins are saner, nicer and less snarky than this writer.
I give thanks to my friends, musicians and civilians alike, from the Lewisburg (PA) area, where the amazing Steve Mitchell hosts a Monday Music Mashup. It is simply glorious to be able to bang my drum—however slowly—again. A plus: respectful, reactive audiences of genuine music lovers. Yes, I miss my fellow players from my former lives and wish I could teleport them somehow. But not for "Mustang Sally."
I give thanks to my children: crusading Gracie, firecracker Ellie and especially constant Dennis. Constant because God made him preternaturally happy.
In fact, the best Thanksgiving of my entire time on the planet occurred but two years ago. After many modes of transport, I landed back in the Nutmeg State. Received about 8,296 hugs. Got to see my Ellie give her final marching-band performance—a three-tissue event. An all-day food fest delivered by the extended Dwyer-Flynn family: fabulous people who have taken me in umpteen times on Thanksgivings past when I had nowhere to go.
But most of all, I spent three days with the most wonderful, complete and enriching person in my little world. No word or phrase of thanks qualifies for November 21-23, 2012. Indellyably in my faltering hard drive.
Eat, drink and jollify this Thursday. Try the red-beet eggs.
Thank you, readers.
