Some Thanksgiving traditions and memories endure -- but watch out for the ones that bite
I think the mule was just waiting for the chance to bite me. I don’t think he was interested in the apple at all.
It was Thanksgiving morning, frosty cold. As the community was gathering at our one-room schoolhouse for the feast, I was out helping the Roller twins catch their mule. We weren’t crazy about going to school but the mule, Libby, absolutely couldn’t stand it. The moment the twins slid off the mule’s back, Libby would wheel around and make a beeline back for home.
The twins, Darrell and Darrelline (no, really), had the farthest to come each day: eight miles, each way. They were usually at least an hour late getting to school and they’d have to leave early to get back before dark. So at this moment, while the schoolhouse filled up with Thanksgiving celebrants, each bringing a covered dish of some indefinable treat, we were trying to catch Libby and discourage him from heading home alone.
It never occurred to me to wonder why I was recruited for these missions when I was the youngest (and arguably the dumbest) child in school. From my point of view, it was because I represented the whole first and second grades, a position of some esteem, that I was called upon to take part in this perilous adventure. For some reason the mule seemed to take an interest in me and wanted to be close to me. Easy to see why, I reasoned. I was 5 years old, and very cute.
I’ve come to realize that Libby was just waiting for a chance to bite me. He probably thought I’d be a lot more flavorful than the wrinkly apple I was trying to attract him with. But I was supposed to stand on a rock, temptingly holding out the apple, while Darrell and Darrelline silently crept up to tether him securely until the end of the day.
It was 1939, the year of two Thanksgivings. At that time, Thanksgiving wasn’t a fixed day. Instead, President Roosevelt issued a proclamation setting the day as Nov. 23, but many governors objected to the day he’d chosen. Some governors declared Nov. 30 as Thanksgiving. Depending upon where you lived, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the 23rd or the 30th. Twenty-three states observed Thanksgiving Day on Nov. 23 and 23 states celebrated on Nov. 30, while Texas and Colorado declared both Thursdays to be holidays. We literally didn’t know which Thanksgiving Day to celebrate, but in Warland, it didn’t matter much.
We had no way of knowing how much the holiday would change, for us and for the world. If you had told us that one day our little town would disappear forever under the waters of the Great Kootenai River, we wouldn’t have believed it for a minute. What a ridiculous idea!
Thanksgiving remained a treasured holiday through World War II even with its shortages. Turkeys were very hard to get even through the 1950s. You just had to fatten up a chicken. Each year, we set the tables with our best china, showered, put on fresh makeup, dressed in our very best and recalled what we were thankful for.
We were thankful for the telephone. Anyone who couldn’t join the party called. If the phone rang, you HAD to answer it. If somebody had told us the day would come when nobody would answer their phone. we wouldn’t have believed it for a minute. What a ridiculous idea!
It’s almost Thanksgiving again. At some point on this special day, just like the old times, around the table or on Zoom, we’ll all take turns saying what we’re thankful for.
As usual, I’ll take a minute to remember the friends who have touched my life, been part of my village, and now are gone. I’m remembering the newest loss, Val Dumond, whom I met when our sons were young radicals in junior high, who barricaded themselves in the principal’s office — keeping themselves in, and the principal out. Val was an ardent feminist who stopped just short of bra burning. Her son recalled, “Mom went to law school at night while holding down a 40-hour day job.” Val and I opened a public relations business together in 1985. She wrote many books, established her own publishing company, Muddy Puddle Press. “A life well lived,” more than one person has observed.
It’s the people we meet along the journey that gives Thanksgiving its flavor and meaning. I keep remembering Libby the mule. It’s been a lot of fun, and intriguing, and exciting, but somewhere along the way, it’s bound to bite.
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