giving thanks the day after

The most precious memories of my life relate to food and lively conversations around a big table. Yesterday’s home-made mashed potatoes, apple pie and a never-emptying glass of unsweetened ice-tea (without ice) will trigger my unforgettable encounter with a loving family in DeSoto, Texas. Unable to clean off my gold-trimmed plate, I thought will never get hungry every again.

I joined two wrinkled lovebirds, having recently celebrated sixty years in marriage as the three privileged guests not genetically connected to the McRae-family. Surviving the Second World War as a sergeant in the air force, he sent word from Italy to his fiancée on a farm in Oklahoma to get their wedding bells ready. But their long awaited union was delayed by a sudden onslaught of Polio which left him paralyzed and unable to write to her for three months. Two years later they were finally married in the hospital and began their life together in Dallas where he had a blackberry bush and a feisty German neighbor.

This was my second Thanksgiving in the States and as most American traditions go, it turned out as a very educational experience for me. Last year I was introduced to the New York parade―finally understanding what Ferris Bueller’ was on about―and the bizarre bargain shopping on the following Friday morning. This year did not disappoint. I learned to play a game called Train and that a full-blooded German oma can lose her dominoes and her marbles over American football. The nugget for the day was that a woman who tells you her age will tell you everything.

Riding in the back of the car toward the night time skyline of downtown my face ached from laughing too much all day. I said goodbye to all the beautiful people I had around me for an entire day...what a priceless gift!

My addiction to tea with milk drove me out to the store this afternoon. I dragged my lazy bum across the empty campus lawn toward the enclosed parking lot next to the men’s dorm. While living in the city with the highest crime rate in the US, I am still more safe walking to my car here alone than most single women living in Africa.

Avoiding the unbelievable hazards en-route to Wal-Mart, I thanked God for this faithful old car with the parallel cracks across her windshield, her clutch slipping now and then, her non-existent air-conditioning―my proud chariot. She was given to me two months ago as a gift by a generous couple who lives by grace themselves.

Inside the store I thanked the lady who rang up my groceries and asked her if she was able to spend yesterday with her family. Stopping at the light between Ross and Washington, I watched an old Mexican man cross the street in front of me. On foot from somewhere to nowhere, carrying two plastic bags, staring straight ahead. His gray moustache surprisingly groomed gave his face a thoughtful look. I felt grateful for a fixed street address and the brief telephone conversation this morning with my parents across the Atlantic.

My hungry stomach mocked my short-term memory now for leaving the two carefully packed containers with my left-overs on the kitchen counter next to the African Violets last night. A great excuse to treat myself with a cheese burger at Jack-in-the-Box―remembering it soon enough this time before I drove past it...like last time.

Mercia takes my order while a rowdy customer demands the key to the restroom.

“There’s somebody in there.” An elderly man explains on her behalf, sitting by himself at a table facing the coveted door. Our eyes meet and he returns my nod with a smile.

The service is quick and I barely have time to greet all the hairnetted Hispanic girls working in the kitchen. Probably single moms wishing they could be at home with their kids―I leave with a warm brown bag and a cold milkshake. Not quite what I had yesterday but a treasure compared to what many mouths have to eat today.

I pull out into the street again thinking―Keep to the right woman...remember to stay on the right side of the road!