Tradition

Tomorrow will be Mark's first Thanksgiving with his new wife. Tomorrow will be Neil's last with the woman he's been married to for more than twenty years. I don't know why the confluence overwhelms me, but it does, and I feel sad. "Be a good husband," I said to Mark, not knowing what else to say. "Whatever you're going to do, don't drag it out," I said to Neil, having been a player in that unhappy model once. The thing is, I can't imagine Mark being a good husband, and to this hour I think Neil is a great husband. But it's hard to be a good husband if you fall for somebody else. There is that.

I love Thanksgiving. Some have been more good than others--some filled with people I love, and other fairly solitary, as this year's will be. But all good in their way. The meal hasn't changed--not since the day I was five: I still make my mother's stuffing, still smash turnips, peel spuds, prefer jellied cranberry over the relish. It's the Norwegian in me: the ruttedness, or rootedness. Pass the tradition. Tusen tak.

I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. Thank you for your friendship; can't tell you the hours of pleasure you bring me.

Happy Thanksgiving.