I’m not so sure history portrays the first Thanksgiving accurately at least from the viewpoint of Native Americans who would soon get the raw end of the deal in the New World after the arrival of Pilgrims.
Nonetheless, it’s a holiday where – hopefully – differences are set aside and families and friends sit down together and enjoy a meal enveloped in love and peace. And that’s exactly what happens in my own home annually on the last Thursday of November.
I’ve always loved Thanksgiving. My childhood home was the gathering spot for family that included grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. As the years passed, the dynamics of change altered things. Grandparents died; cousins married and started traditions of their own; the family eventually scattered.
Then a new generation of children came into the family and Thanksgiving Day celebrations were once again filled with love and joy.
Fast forward to 2015. My parents are gone. So is my only sibling, my brother, Larry. My youngest son, Kit, and his wife, Bonnie, live in California and alternate the years they come to Chattanooga for Thanksgiving. This was a California year.