I haven't activated the heat since coming home from work. I still marvel at the weather in Northern California, not quite seven years after moving here. I imagined myself living by the ocean but also in warm weather, despite having embraced hours of fog and rain during my visits. Here in the Delta, it does not quite freeze but it will drop to forty, and I think it's hovering at fifty outside as I write.
The rain overtook the Delta just a few weeks ago. Migrating fowl fill the air and fields. Smaller birds, tremendous flocks of them, settle on the wires. Our lights flicker. We message each other and ask, is your power off? Is it the whole island or just our park? We stand outside our houses and stare at the torrents of water falling from the black skies. My first two years here saw nearly no rain. Five years later, people still suspect that drought will again grip the land. We might bemoan the dark and cold as we wait for the utility company to restore service. But we do not loathe the bountiful showers which raise the water table and nourish the crops.
On the night before American Thanksgiving Day, I find myself wondering for what I am thankful. In my childhood home, I would be third to pronounce my gratitude in the youngest-to-oldest round of the table. After the silly stuff by my little brothers, I would titter, My mom, or my family. In my son's childhood, I usually gave the penultimate nod, though in between marriages, I got to go last. By my turn, I always found myself in tears. No one could understand my sobbed words.
In years when my health had flagged, I expressed thanks for surviving. In the blush of wedded bliss, my spouse and son would both get mentioned. Always, I would tell the dozen folks gathered that I was especially glad for their presence in my life, for my family by choice. Smiles, laughter, a touch on my arm; everyone acknowledged my sentimental heart. I'd wipe my tears, announce that dinner was served, and gesture for the assigned volunteer to carve the turkey. I stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as people whom I had known for my son's entire life pass bowls, pour wine, and tuck napkins under the chins of little children as time passed and precious new families grew.
The year has sorely taxed my patience. Most recently, yet another scammer has hacked my websites so I've been forced back into the less than optimal blogspot. My health has hovered at the edge of poor; like Yossarian in the hospital, I haven't yet gotten sick enough to cure or well enough to release. I work too much, sleep too little, and I still need to lose fifteen of the thirty pounds that I've gained since moving here.
But no bombs fall on my village. And in the city of Mona Chebaro, my son's godmother, a cease fire has been achieved at long last.
Tomorrow I will dine with a new family by choice, my neighbors at the RV & Tiny House Resort at which I live. Today they gathered for a class on making pie dough given by a sweet woman named Robin whom we know as the "Tiny Bakeshop" lady. One of the fabulous women who lives here told me that she's doing a gluten-free crust for me. She asked me if I like apple pie. I definitely do.
I hope to talk to my son and maybe some of my siblings. I will ask each, "For what are you thankful?" and listen to whatever they say, whether funny or serious. When the call ends, I will stand still for a few minutes, lost in memory and perhaps a little homesick. But someone will call to me. I will turn, and move towards the cluster of happy people. Someone else will hand me a glass. Another will pull a chair over so I can join them. Waves of conversation and laughter will wash over me.
This, I will think. I'm thankful for this.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
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