Today, I bid adieu to my friend Mike for this holiday weekend. We’ll reconvene Monday, we said, and he asked that I text him with breaking baseball news. I said that I would.
He mentioned that, once again, he’d be spending Thanksgiving with his fiancee in Cooperstown, where they’d assuredly pay a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame. He was very much looking forward to it, and, as I understand it, it’s becoming something of an annual tradition for them.
I share this anecdote in part because it’s sports-related, yes, but mostly because if I were in a fifth-grade class right now (many would argue that I ought to be) and discussing what Thanksgiving means to me, I’d say something along these lines: It’s a day on which we can lay down our proverbial burdens by the riverside, in the words of Phife Dawg, and enjoy the company of our friends and family. There’s (hopefully) no work and certainly no last-minute gift shopping.
The standard American Thanksgiving usually entails lots of food and lots of football and lots of family, all crammed into too-small living rooms. Many of my own, in fact, could be described as such.
But however you define yours — whether it be gorging on turkey and the NFL or perusing the hallowed Hall — may it bring you happiness and peace.
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