284 animal, vegetable, miracleHaving more than enough, whether it came from the garden or the
grocery, is the agenda of this holiday. In most cases it may only be a pag-
eant, but holidays are symbolic anyway, providing the dotted lines on the
social-contract treasure map we’ve drawn up for our families and nations.
As pageantry goes, what could go more to the heart of things than this
story of need, a dread of starvation, and salvation arriving through the
unexpected blessing of harvest? Even feigning surprise, pretending it was
unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting
everything so carelessly. Wake up now, look alive, for here is a day off
work just to praise Creation: the turkey, the squash, and the corn, these
things that ate and drank sunshine, grass, mud, and rain, and then in the
shortening days laid down their lives for our welfare and onward resolve.
There’s the miracle for you, the absolute sacrifice that still holds back
seeds: a germ of promise to do the whole thing again, another time.
Oh, yes, I know the Squanto story, we replayed it to death in our prim-
itive grade-school pageantry (“Pilgrim friends! Bury one fish beneath each
corn plant!”). But that hopeful affiliation ended so badly, I hate to keep
bringing it up. Bygones are what they are. In my household credo, Thanks-
giving is Creation’s birthday party. Praise harvest, a pause and sigh on the
breath of immortality.
/Snow fell on our garden in December, leaving the dried corn stalks
and withered tomato vines standing black on white like a pen- and-ink
drawing titled Rest. I postponed looking at seed catalogs for awhile. Those
of us who give body and soul to projects that never seem to end—child
rearing, housecleaning, gardening—know the value of the occasional
closed door. We need our moments of declared truce.
The farmers’ market closed for the year. We paid our last call to the
vendors there, taking phone numbers and promising to keep in touch for
all kinds of reasons: we would miss our regular chats; we would need ad-
vice about the Icelandic sheep we were getting in the spring; we might
drive out sometimes to get winter greens from their cold frames. We
stocked up on enough frozen meat to see us through winter, including a
hefty leg of lamb for one of our holiday dinners.