In fourth grade, I got it right. I wrote, “I am thankful for spelling Thanksgiving corectly (sic).” For that, Sister Mary Bernadette Rosemary Mary delivered a stern lecture on taking class seriously. She was to be the first of my many editors in years to come.
A middle-schooler’s young life has only begun its barrage of trials. Within this inexperienced world view, the Thanksgiving list has limits: “I was thankful that I caught the bus on time this morning. I am thankful for the rest of the week off to play in the snow. I am thankful for Wednesday cheeseburger day in the cafeteria. I am thankful for my Return of the Jedi Jabba The Hutt Playset.”
I thought about Middle School Me and all he was thankful for as I sat at the intersection of Burbank and Victory boulevards today. The cars ahead of me were crammed in a bottleneck, with cranky drivers trying to get into the Empire Center.
“I am thankful that the cars honking all over this intersection are not honking at me,” I found myself thinking.
Wait. Is that the best I’ve got? Was I really getting that shallow? Is this all I have to be thankful for?
No. I find that as I get older, I count my blessings more often than just the days before a national holiday. And I understand now the look my grandparents would get on Thanksgiving every year as they were surrounded by two and three generations of their progeny.
It must get easier to count those blessings when they’re right in front of you, making you laugh, eating the dinner you made for them, asking you for a third helping of the yams-and-marshmallows, hold the yams.
A year ago, I was thankful to move to this city where people genuinely wish you a good day, and neighbors actually care about your well-being. A month ago, I was thankful for the birth of my best friend’s daughter, a girl who for her whole life will endure surgeries to help her heart.