NOVEMBER 26, 2021 – To earn my keep yesterday, I did three things: 1. Hiked down to the end of the town (Chester, CT) and back; 2. Assisted our son Byron in his leaf harvest; and 3. Manually washed an “infinity collection” of food preparation and serving dishes too large and numerous for the dishwasher, and silverware that our daughter-in-law, Mylène, told me should be washed by hand.
In combination these “efforts” underscored the fact that it takes a village to produce a five-star Thanksgiving meal.
The hike from the heights down to where the Pattaconk flows allowed a generous view of the old New England town that Byron and Mylène now call home. The winding road and time-honored homes were blissfully quiet under blue skies and a smiling sun. I celebrated the peace by breaking it, whistling Yankee Doodle. On my steady climb back up the steep, twisting way, my legs and lungs worked hard—burning calories to accommodate later over-consumption.
The “leaf harvest” that followed my trek was as much fun as it was productive. After Byron had set up the smoker for one of the turkeys and while the rest of our crew members were hard at work inside, our gracious host asked me to drive his garden tractor/leaf-blower all over the yard while he stuffed chaff into bags for later disposition.
In my runaway imagination I pictured the tractor racing out of control down the long, sloping, twisting driveway. In a panic, I’d be messing with brakes, shifting lever, and steering wheel. Destiny would drive the tractor right into the curbside mailbox post. Mailbox, tractor, and driver would go air-borne over the curb and skid in front of a speeding Denali. As fast as you could utter tur in turkey, what would’ve been a perfectly wonderful Thanksgiving would become . . . something not so perfect.
In reality, however, Byron’s faith in his old man was not misplaced. The tractor was idiot-proof, and after the initial lurch and losing my cap, I was a kid with a new toy. For the next hour, I played “farmer” bringin’ home the bacon . . . er . . . turkey . . . er . . . . corn . . . er . . . leaves.
Hours later, after partaking in one of the most exquisite and bountiful Thanksgiving meals imaginable, I volunteered to “take care of the dishes.” Within my narrow worldview, I’d focused on the empty plates on the table. An hour later, my hands were as wrinkled as they’d be when I was a kid after swimming all afternoon in the Connecticut River. For every prep or serving dish I washed, my fellow villagers would slip another four or five dishes on the counter next to my workstation.
Only by immersion in soapy waters did I fully appreciate the work involved while I’d been out whistling Yankee Doodle, then playing “farmer,” then eating like one of yore. For the Herculean efforts of others, I’m now ever more thankful for . . . “the village” it takes to produce a Thanksgiving feast.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
