Thanksgiving’s over. By now the turkey soup and the turkey sandwiches and the turkey fricassee and the turkey hash and the turkey pan dowdy and the turkey chow mien have all been stuffed into bellies or freezers.
So, perhaps, it’s time for a little turkey day reflection.
We spent Thanksgiving day with family, Jim (son) and Bonnie (daughter-in-law) were the hosts. They made two perfect turkeys…brined and roasted to a succulent golden brown. Two delicious birds, seventeen beautiful guests. Days of cleaning and shopping and brining and mashing and boiling went into this delicious feast. It was fun—even when the eating was done, it was joyous in the kitchen helping pack leftovers and wash dishes. Fun and happy. Everyone behaving—keeping their disparate political and religious views to themselves on this special day when in-laws, old folks and sweet children come together.
|Okay, I confess...|
I found this photo on google.
It's a google gobbler.
Around 7:00 two of the guests left to go shopping. I could go into a rant here about stores being opened on Thanksgiving. Bartering their stuff, filling their coffers, making hay while the sun shines or after it sets on the day devoted to thankfulness and stuffing. But you know—it sucks.
And I confess here—I’m a Black Friday shopper. By the time I get to the stores, the craziness has slowed down, the early birds are running out of steam and heading out to breakfast somewhere when I mosey in around 9:00. People aren’t rude. No one dies over a flat screen TV, they just shop and stand in long, long lines and chat with each other. It’s nice. Really.
But back to my Thanksgiving story. The two shoppers (actually one was the shopper and one was the helper) went to separate Dunham stores and would commune via cell phone to see who found the prize first. The quest was for guns. Guns on sale on Thanksgiving. The helper hunts deer. The gun buyer doesn’t, not really…besides hunters don’t need assault rifles, and that’s what he was after.
My brother Tom and lots of people I know hunt. They eat the venison. My brother-in-law Walt shoots muskrats (rats that live in water) that invade the pond at the farm in Wisconsin (he doesn’t eat them.)
But assault rifles are another story or at least a question. Why? Does having an assault rifle make you bigger? Yes, it does. An eight-year-old with a gun is huge and dangerous. A crippled old man in a wheelchair is the Hulk or Rambo. Do people buy people-killing guns so they’ll feel big and powerful and dangerous? Without a doubt.
Even as I write this I’m afraid of them. Don’t cross someone with a gun. Keep your mouth shut and your keyboard quiet. Cower.
What stuff will our future Thanksgivings be made of? Thankful feasts with our families and/or a shopping day when we can buy a bargain priced assault rifle?