Benjamin Franklin had Poor Richard.
TheWiredResearcher has Poor Brentford Lee
and welcomes him back as a guest contributor—
louder than a sardine timer and twice as slippery—
to sanctify
our Thanksgiving tables
with a bold mix of satire and sass.

Discerning readers like you, My Dear Friends, have no doubt noticed that from time to time, I write my posts under what I would call my nom de plume, Poor Brentford Lee. I like it, especially since it always makes me feel that I’m right up there in American letters right beside Ben Franklin and his famed Poor Richard.

I suspect it is with me as it was with Franklin. Using a nom de plume allows me to say things that I might have better sense than to say under my real name.

Anyway, I like Poor Brentford Lee enough that I let him grab hold of my smartphone and tap his heart away to share whatever it is he insists on sharing about Thanksgiving!

And this, My Dear Friends, is precisely where I step aside and let Poor Brentford take over. He’s already clearing his throat, poised to pontificate about Thanksgiving and give you a mouthful about all the other holidays we might celebrate. Or not.

Take it away, Poor Brentford…

Law me, Child, you would think folks would leave well enough alone and let Thanksgiving shine on its own once a year. But no. One day’s not enough for some people. They’ve gone and populated the whole turkey week with holidays!

Where shall I begin and how shall I spit out all the celebrations making every day on my calendar look like parchment with measles.

I’ll tell you here and now. Lace your girdle. Tighten your suspenders. Better still. Do both.

“Who? Me?”

“Yes. You. You tin-bellied Buzzard.”

And no. It is not true, the rumor that you may have heard that Ben Franklin wanted the buzzard to be declared America’s national bird. (And even if he had, he would not have endorsed eating it for Thanksgiving instead of turkey. So don’t let my nonsense bother your pretty little mind nary a whit when you sit down and take a gander at the golden bird on your table. It’s a turkey. And, besides, a turkey by any other name tastes the same.) But he did prefer the turkey over the Bald Eagle–which was, is, and forever shall be America’s national bird. He thought the eagle had “bad moral character” whereas the turkey was a bird “of courage.” But I assure you, Franklin never advocated that the turkey–or buzzard–be elevated to a national symbol.

But let’s get back to this bird of courage, with my genuine assurance that you’ll be stuffed by the time yours is done. (And it may be already.)

Do you realize that just a few days ago–Monday, November 24–folks celebrated:

● Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day. (Law me, Child, half of us still haven’t identified a talent, and the other half are busy showing theirs off on Facebook. Settle down and smooth your feathers. We’re all special just as we are.)

● D. B. Cooper Day. (Lord help us! Who in their stuffed mind celebrates a masked, unidentified airplane hijacker? Pass the gravy, please—and make it strong.)

● International Au Pair Day. (Bless their ambitious little hearts. Raising other people’s children while living in their basements. That’s not a holiday—that’s a calling.)

● National Brand Day. (Because nothing says Thanksgiving spirit like corporate logos. Law me twice and hand me a napkin.)

● National Fairy Bread Day. (Child, that’s just white bread with butter and sprinkles. The Australians have some nerve calling it a delicacy. Bless their festive little hearts.)

● National Sardines Day. (Well, thank you! I think I will. Pass the saltines, please. Those fishies may be little, but they sure pack the omegas. Goodness, no. No need to open the windows. Light a candle? Have you lost your mind? Eat some sardines and chill.)

Land’s sake. That’s just Monday’s shenanigans.

I won’t dare trot my way through Tuesday and Wednesday, and when we get to Thanksgiving Day (the granddaddy of all American feasts), we’ve got at least five other celebrations dotting up my measled calendar—including Turkey-Free Thanksgiving. (I’m about to faint. Run fetch the smelling salts, please.) And Pins and Needles Day. (No doubt all the turkeys in the land are on theirs. My stars, even the Macy’s balloons look nervous.)

And don’t get me started on what follows on Friday. It’s none other than Black Friday, but Poor Brentford calls it National Lose Your Religion Day.

Thank your lucky un-plucked feathers that brings us to December, filled with an entire navigation of celebratory days that won’t get stuck in anybody’s craw.

The month barely opens before we’re knee-deep in Advent (which starts on November 30 this year—law me, Sweetheart, some of us are still digesting stuffing and the rest of us are remembering that we meant to buy candles).

Then comes December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (a reminder that December still knows how to be holy before the cookies take over).

December 10 brings Human Rights Day (which, given the state of the world, ought to be celebrated daily, loudly, and with snacks).

December 12 offers the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe (a celebration so radiant it could light a path clear across the Shenandoah), and December 13 arrives with Saint Lucy’s Day (bless their bright little candles; it’s the one holiday where setting fire to your hair is considered festive).

And then, Sugar, December 21 rolls in with the Winter Solstice (the shortest day of the year—when the sun says “I’m tired” and slips behind the hills before Poor Brentford has found his reading glasses).

December 24 is Christmas Eve (the day we all lie and say “just one more cookie”), December 25 is Christmas Day (the grandmammy of gift wrap and gravy boats), and December 26 brings the first day of Kwanzaa and Boxing Day (a pair of celebrations that stretch the season just a little sweeter and a little longer).

Finally, December 31 lurches toward us as New Year’s Eve (when half the country watches the ball drop and the other half drops before the ball does).

And before you start thinking December has nothing left to get stuck in your craw, Dear One, let Poor Brentford assure you otherwise. We haven’t even touched the other December shenanigans—those bafflin’, bedazzlin’, bubble-blowin’ celebrations that make a body wonder who’s in charge of this calendar.

Take Package Protection Day (Law me, Sweetheart, if your packages need protection, it’s already too late).

Then there’s Bathtub Party Day (Heavens no. These bubbles are reserved for… well, that’s none of your business).

Put On Your Own Shoes Day arrives next (bless their slow little hearts—and who, pray tell, was puttin’ ’em on before today?).

National Letter Writing Day finally appears (fetch me a quill and ink pot pen before the feeling passes), followed closely by Weary Willie Day (and aren’t we all, after this calendar?).

Then up pops Dewey Decimal System Day (now kiss my librarian grits—this is a holiday worthy of humanity), and International Mountain Day (Child, here in the Shenandoah, every day is Mountain Day, even Tuesday).

Fast-forward a bit and December tosses out National Whiners’ Day (celebrated mostly by folks returning gifts they don’t deserve), followed by Still Need To Do Day (my to-do list fainted dead away—fetch the smelling salts), and finally Make Up Your Mind Day (if only—Poor Brentford’s been undecided since the first time he picked up a pen).

As for me, I’ve made up my mind that I’ve stuffed you with enough celebrations already, and I’m not about to puff up my feathers and strut around with more. Land’s sake alive! If I got going on all the celebrations we won’t be celebrating in 2026, I’d be here forever and you’d be reading even longer. (One reader told me just a feather or two ago that I was getting pretty windy.)

Now, before you fan yourself and declare that Poor Brentford has lost the last marble he was ever loaned, let me tell you something plain and true. All this fussin’ and frettin’ over holidays—big ones, little ones, ridiculous ones—might seem like the carryings-on of a nation that’s plum run out of sense. But Sugar, I don’t think that’s it at all. Not deep down.

I think we keep inventing these goldurned celebrations because we’re hungry for each other. Hungry for community, for belonging, for a reason—any reason—to stop the world long enough to say, “I’m here, you’re here, thank heavens we made it another day.”

We are a scattered people trying to stitch ourselves back together with whatever thread we can find—peppermint bark, bathtub bubbles, mountain days, turkey days, even days devoted to weary Willies and packages that need protecting. It’s laughable, yes. But it’s also a kind of hope. A kind of reaching.

And if you ask me—and you didn’t, but here I go anyway—I think we ought to take these foolish little observances and set them right on the Thanksgiving table alongside the mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Call them what they are:

Laughable Blessings.

Because heaven knows we need reasons to laugh. We need excuses to gather. We need bright spots—silly or sacred—that remind us we belong to one another, even on the days we feel most alone.

So Child, if some little holiday comes along and tickles your wishbone or nudges your heart, pull up a chair at your Thanksgiving table and let it sit a spell. Celebrate it. Laugh at it. Give thanks for it.

Light a candle. Bake a pie. Wear the dress or don’t (but mercy, cover the essentials). Put on your own shoes—today or tomorrow.

Because in the end, Thanksgiving isn’t only about turkeys and table linens. It’s about noticing the small things—absurd, tender, holy—that remind us how lucky we are to be here at all.

And that, My Dear Readers, is a blessing worth celebrating on Thanksgiving and every day of the year.

Poor Brentford Says

Eat well. Laugh loudly.
And Sweetheart, if life insists on giving you
a celebration for every day on the calendar…
count them as blessings — even the laughable ones.