We enjoyed a Thanksgiving Dinner at my oldest friend's house last night. I do mean oldest, we were practically litter mates: our mothers were best friends since they were kids, grew up together, were in the same barracks in the concentration camp. Survived together. That kind of oldest friends.
Thanksgiving in Canada has changed from when we were kids in post war Toronto. It was just another holiday, then, no special social import. But over the years here we've begun to treat it as the Americans do, a family and friends day, a day for giving thanks.
I always thought that I hated punkin' pie.
Apparently I don't. I was misinformed.
But sorry, I still have no great fondness for the yam/sweet potato. Yes, I know that they're different, but I don't care.
Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Thanks for the Grub.
So we give thanks, not just for a bountiful harvest but for family and friends; for those who gave up everything familiar to venture to a new world. New language, new customs, new opportunities. I have been a stranger in a strange land. To those who survived and endured hardships so that their children wouldn't have to. To those who came before and made it a little easier.
And to those who made it all possible.
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