Thanksgiving by Constantine Gochis

 

So. Back to Dad stories. Well, at least this one. I am always amazed at how cynical Dad was. I don't know why exactly, because I was exposed to his disposition of it for 50 years of my life. I think perhaps it is a matter of incongruity because he rather surprised me by converting to Catholicism at age 85. This suggests a faith in Providence a story like this would gainsay. On the other hand, as a practicing Catholic myself, I understand the cynicism. It's hard to avoid with the abundance of insanity thrust upon us fragile humans by other humans who think they are invulnerable to death and the consequence of hell. Cognitive dissonance is a regular experience in modern times. 

I cannot say that I recall a particularly memorable Thanksgiving.

True, I have attended my share of these events and hosted many. If I must expand about these, some were worthy of a Roman banquet and others dull to disastrous at best.

Perhaps I misunderstand the theme proposed by our mentor for this week's writing exercise. I do not think it called for a recapitulation of exciting table talk. I thought, peraps, there may have been an inference that the spirit of the holiday called for some reflection on a meaning other than the pleasures of gatronomy.

"Like what?" as Woody Allen is likely to say i one of his film monologues.

"Well," as he might reply, "Like an expression of gratitude received, a sense of some metaphysical interposition in our lives to interrupt the ordinary banality of every day living."

"Like the non-intervening God of your movie, 'Crimes and Misdemeanors?"

"O.K. so He don't go to Thanksgiving parties. Maybe he prefers the aroma of roasting lamb instead, certainly more material than the unintelligible mumblings of sated party goers."

I would then ask, "Who's to thank?"  Maybe the friendly Indians who supplied the Plymouth colonists with a spate of turkeys, thereby establishing our national predilection for this friendly but unwary bird as a meat course for this fete?

It would have been fun to discuss this matter further with Woody, but I could not conjure his presence for more dialogue.  I bethought myself of my street bum friend Diogenes who was sure to accost me soon for his regular periodic stipend of spare change.  I expect he was about due to find himelf, by pure chance, in the environs of my apartment.  IT is suspeiciously coincidental that he times his appearances to when I am returning from a shopping tour with bulging plastic bags. I am prone to give him some items from the largesse.

His expected appearance, as I predicted, was consonant with my needs for some counsel on the subject of Thabnksgiving.  I must note here that Diogenes is a man of surprising erudition. He was not, in fact, always a bum. Rather, he occupied the apogee of economic success and was suddenly hurled into the depths of bum hood by love.

At this point, some description of Diogenes is called for: He has a full head of disoriented graying hair, and a full, similarly untended beard.  He carries a long staff that was once the handle of a push-broom. If I were recasting for the remake of the film, "The Ten Commandments" he would be my Moses--though he has more the tragic quality of John the Baptist.

For those of you who eschew Biblical references, his severed head, I mean John the Baptist, was an expression of gratitude to Salome for her celebrated dance and more pertinently, her later rendezvous with a grateful Herod.

Without further exploration of meaning, let us say that her gratitude was better than turkey.

Diogenes was expressing great interest in the contents of my shopping bags.

"Maybe you got something I could eat raw?" he questioned.

I gave him several ears of corn. He eats corn raw and is known to eat raw potatoes.

"Diogenes," I said, without preamble, "have you had any memorable Thanksgiving holidays?"

"One," he answered without hesitation. "It was the year my wife Seraphina abandoned me as we were on a cruise on the Mediterranean.  She fell in love with poetry and a poetess."

"Seriously, Diogenes," I offered, "Aren't you scheduled for one of those spectacular full course meals at a homeless center, you know for one dollar and fifty seven cents. I bought ten of these for bums like you I don't even know."

"You might have deposited the one dollar and fifty seven cents to a more worthy cause, like me." Diogenes opined.

"I generally avoid those festivals unless times are particularly hard.  The food isn't bad, but usually some guy preaches at ou about salvation and you are reminded there is an obligation to thank someone for the meal.  This causes me much mental distress and a bout with dyspepsia." 

"Do you not think that the colonists in Plymouth gave thanks for their bounty to a higher being?" I asked.

"I thought, " Diogenes responded,  "this might be true when I attended a parochial elementary school.  When I hit the publi ones, the teachers suggested this was a lot of mythology propounded by the gun lobby, and those who wanted to destroy the separation of Church and State.  If I am not mistaken, I think they included the tobacco executives and Republicans."

"By the way," he added, "would you have a spare cigarette and another quarter, for which I will bestow everlasting gratitude upon you, in the best tradition of the season."

I felt this was a modest request.  When I confer with Diogenes, it is a learning experience. In addition to the wisdom he exudes, he is imbued with a huge store of "chutzpah".

"Listen," he said as he departed. "It's all political.  Republian Presidents name a date and the Democrats filibuster. It's all a question of what is or not.  For the less contentious like me, it is best to be less confrontational about matters that have no visible effect one way or the other. If you have to--look upward as if in devotion and take on your most pious expression.  Every guy who donates one dollar and fifty cents, once a year, expects some visible proof of gratitude.

As he departed, I had to reconsider casting him as Moses or John the Baptist. Perhaps the role of Mephistopheles or Faust would be more appropriate--after he was cleaned up and combed, of course.

How sad. Is this all there is? Well, in the meantime, there's a good dinner in the offing. I shall be a guest in sumptious surroundings.  I will bring a bottle of wine I prefer. It's best to be prepared since if there is a Providence that guides these things, it makes only occasional appearances, and these can be attributed to mathematical chance--lousy odds but its the best we got.