All right. So good morning, everyone. Happy Monday and all that happy horse shit.
I want to ask you all–Is anyone else mildly baffled by the fact that freaking Thanksgiving is next week? Honestly, weren’t we all just lounging out in the summer sun, enjoying long days and cold frosty brews and balmy starlit nights?
That time passage crap gets really apparent and sort of annoying the older I get.
In honor of the upcoming celebration of stealing this land from the indigenous people, I’d like to share my favorite Thanksgiving story with you.
First, let me share a picture I took not 10 minutes ago. I have a cat I adore very much. She’s the pretty girl pictured grooming in the sun here on my blog.
Look at this.
Sitting on my laptop.
What a little booger. I love her so.
Lucky for us, she has moved on to some nook somewhere else to nap for the next 8 hours.
Okay, back to my Thanksgiving story.
Back in 1972, I was a little tomboy hellion with a face full of freckles and an unfortunate pixie haircut given to me by a neighborhood friend. I was super rough-and-tumble, living the life, never having too many things go wrong in my tiny suburban experience. That is until September rolled around and my world was turned upside down when I had to stop my free-wheeling lifestyle and go off to freaking kindergarten. I was not pleased by this mandatory infringement on my personal liberties. My little sister got to stay home with our mom. I was jealous and pissed and, believe me, I let my family and my new teacher know it. Sure, it was only for a couple of hours every weekday morning, but I still hated it.
So, there I was, a little girl putting in my time in the big gymnasium, sitting at the “diamond table”.
I got spanked in kindergarten a couple of times by both my teacher and the school principal. So you see–I was what they might have considered a “pain in the ass”.
Thanksgiving time rolled around. By then, I was kinda-sorta trying to conform. We were going to have a big “feast” with the other morning kindergarten class on the other side of the gymnasium. We all had to pick if we wanted to be a pilgrim or an Indian.
Fun fact about me—ever since birth, I’ve been a HUGE American Indian fan. I LOVED them. I wanted so badly to be one, but I’m not. Still, I loved (love) their cultures. I took books about them out of the local library as often as I could. I used to set up all of my Indian “artifacts” in my bedroom and invite my mom to come in and look around like it was a museum. I remember riding in the front of a shopping cart once begging my mom for some red plaid trousers for sale because I had seen a photo of Geronimo wearing some just like them. (Mom bought them. They were cool as fuck.)
You get the picture.
So imagine my surprise when I opted to be a pilgrim woman for our kindergarten feast. I clearly recall trying to think outside the box and opening myself up to new ideas and opportunities. My skinny blonde Mary Tyler Moore flipped-hairdo black horn-rimmed glasses teacher gave me a black construction paper hat with a shiny white paper trim. I was like–this hat is bleak and weird, dammit, I wish I would have gone for the feather in the headband like my heart really desired, but there I was–ready to belly up to the table adorned with food. All I remember from the menu lineup that day was popcorn and whole red apples.
I got a paper plate and lined up.
I don’t know if I was irritated by being a pilgrim woman, or if I was just trying to be cool or what, but I remember a room mother piling popcorn on my plate which I decided to hold
with one hand.
I got up to my teacher, who I think kinda hated me at this point, and she was going to place a big red apple on my plate.
She said to me–hold your plate with both hands.
She made her request again.
And I refused once more. I could handle it all with only one hand. I mean, I had just crossed the damn ocean on the freaking Mayflower! I knew what I was doing.
I remember my teacher being flustered with me, but she went ahead and placed the apple on my plate
and the weight of the fruit toppled the paper to one side and all the contents of my holiday feast poured off onto the floor.
I was left with an empty plate and it was my own damn fault.
I wasn’t distraught. I knew I had to live with the consequences of my own actions. Damn it, I hadn’t given in. That was what was important.
I bet that teacher was laughing at me on the inside when that happened. Whatever. She was mean. I know I made her life hard that year.
And that’s my favorite Thanksgiving story.
Here in about a month I’ll come back and tell you the story of when I made that same teacher mad while creating my walnut on a piece of red yarn Christmas ornament because I would not rest until she got the blue paint out of the art closet because I was NOT going to paint my ornament red or green like everyone else.
All right. I’m outa here for now. I’ve got stuff to do. I’m making dinner for friends tomorrow night, so I have to hit the grocery store.
Maybe I’ll buy some popcorn, apples and paper plates.
Thanks for reading 🙂