Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Shenanigans with Poor Brentford Lee

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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.

Gratitude: The Best Dish on Your Thanksgiving Menu

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“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.”

–Melody Beattie (b. 1948; American self-help author, known for her bestseller Codependent No More.)

Lean in close and listen to America gathering ’round for Thanksgiving:

“Oh my goodness, look at that turkey!”

“Mmm, do you smell that? I think it’s the rosemary!”

“Would you look at this spread? It’s a work of art!”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to dive into those mashed potatoes!”

“Save me a piece of pecan pie—no, make that pumpkin and pecan!”

“Pass me the sourdough rolls—they look so fluffy!”

“Is that sage in the stuffing? Smells amazing!”

“Wow, check out the glaze on that ham—it’s shining like caramel!”

“Even the cranberry sauce is sparkling!”

“Oh, wait! I need a picture of this before we did in!”

As everyone takes in the scene, their excitement quiets into warm smiles.

“All right, everyone, lean in! Let’s get a group selfie!”

“Come on, squeeze in! Come on. Get closer. We’re all family here!”

“Say ‘Thanksgiving!‘”

Conversations like that will be heard in more than 85% of American homes this Thursday, as families, friends, neighbors, and even community groups come together to celebrate Thanksgiving. These days, the notion of “family” has become so inclusive that many people call the day “Friendsgiving.”

Here’s the beauty of it all. Regardless of what we call the day and regardless of whether we’re celebrating as a group or alone, it’s a day to appreciate relationships, health, opportunities, or simple pleasures. It’s a day that lets us stand together on the common ground of gratitude regardless of who we’re with, what we believe, or what we’re having for dinner.

But when the meal is over, and everyone trots home, I hope that each of us takes one part of Thanksgiving with us, to enjoy daily, all year long. It’s the best part. It needs no cooking. All it needs is practice, slow daily practice. I’m talking about gratitude.

Hopefully, you’re already practicing gratitude. It’s not that hard to do.

I know some people who keep a gratitude journal. They take the time every day to write about the good in their lives. Maybe it’s something as simple and as subtle as the warmth of sunlight coming through a window. The specifics don’t matter; what matters is taking the time to notice the overlooked, appreciate small kindnesses, and celebrate resilience, beauty, and connection. They’re celebrating the things in life that matter to them–whatever those things might be, even on challenging days and through trying times.

Ironically, maintaining a gratitude journal doesn’t work for me. I prefer acknowledging my gratitude by metaphorically bowing to my blessings throughout the day.

It starts the moment I wake up to Ruby’s unconditional love—one that forgives bedhead and morning breath—and stays with me throughout the day, loyal companion by my side.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my dog.

It’s there when I look at my Fitbit to check my health stats or when I use my Smartphone to connect with the world or when I use ChatGPT to glimpse into the future unfolding before my eyes.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my technology.

It’s there in the small acts of self-care, from soaking in a warm tub to sipping Bunnahabhain Scotch, neat, as I write my blog posts in bed. These moments remind me to slow down and truly savor life.
● Every day, I’m grateful for my rituals that restore.

It’s there in the joy of seasonal celebrations, like Thanksgiving or my birthday, where meaningful meals and thoughtful traditions mark the passage of time.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the rhythms that shape my year.

It’s there in the legacy I’m building—mentoring others, inspiring through teaching, and leaving a lasting mark through my writing and endowed scholarships.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the chance to make a difference.

It’s there in my sense of humor, which allows me to find lightness in life’s challenges and keep my perspective balanced and grounded.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the gift of laughter.

It’s there in my endless curiosity, whether I’m exploring advances in AI or delving into Mary E. Wilkins Freeman research. These pursuits keep me engaged and growing.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the spark of life-long learning.

It’s there in the sanctuary I’ve created in my home, nestled on a mountaintop—a place overflowing with peace, security, and the stories of my life.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the home that holds me tight.

It’s there in the memories of family and friends—those I loved and sometimes lost, yet whose love continues to buoy me. Their presence lingers in the stories we shared, the lessons they taught, and the warmth they left behind, reminding me that love endures beyond time.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the love that never leaves me.

It’s there in the joy of cooking, whether I’m perfecting a recipe, having friends in for dinner, or conjuring up new ways to use up my sourdough.
● Every day, I’m grateful for getting turned on in my kitchen.

It’s there in my health and active lifestyle, in the moments spent biking, gardening, or simply moving through the day with energy and purpose.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the strength to keep on keeping on.

It’s there in my connection to nature, whether I’m tending peonies in the garden or reflecting on life’s deeper truths.
● Every day, I’m grateful for all the lessons of the earth that reach up, grab me, and make me take notice.

It’s there in the purposeful work I do, from my research projects to my blogging to my public speaking, which bring fulfillment and meaning to my days.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the power of purpose.

It’s there in all my hopes and dreams—for myself, for my family, my friends, and for the Earth that is my home. It’s in the vision of a brighter tomorrow, a kinder world, and a deeper connection to the beauty around me.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the possibilities that lie ahead.

It’s there in my spiritual growth and the personal transformation that comes from understanding interconnectedness and embracing life’s deeper mysteries.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the wisdom to seek guidance.

It’s there in the freedom to live authentically, to be true to who I am in my work, relationships, and values, with courage and joy.
● Every day, I’m grateful for the life I’m living.

These moments of gratitude don’t just enrich my days—they also shape who I am and how I move through the world.

My moments of gratitude, both small and profound, create a steady foundation for my life.

My moments of gratitude remind me that gratitude isn’t reserved just for special occasions like Thanksgiving but can be with me every day.

My moments of gratitude keep me singing a happy song all day, even on days that are challenging and trying.

My moments of gratitude boost my happiness and my optimism, and they nurture my positive mindset.

My moments of gratitude help me appreciate others, and they strengthen my relationships. When I make others feel good, I feel better.

My moments of gratitude prompt me to take better care of myself always and in all ways.

My moments of gratitude keep me resilient by helping me accentuate the positives, even in the face of setbacks.

My moments of gratitude foster a glass-full outlook on life and remind me that my worth is defined not by others, but by how I live each moment.

Together, these moments of gratitude create a life filled with meaning and joy. It doesn’t take a holiday or a feast to remind me—it’s there, every day, in the small and the grand, in the fleeting moments and the lasting impacts. And here’s the beauty of it all: gratitude is a practice we can all share. So why not start today? Pause, look around, and bow to the blessings in your life. They’re already there, waiting for you to notice—and for you to give daily thanks.

Hor(r)o(r)scopic Contemplations

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Frankly, anything I say to you is useless and probably more deceiving than revealing. I tell so much truth in my poetry that I’m a fool if I say more. To really get at the truth of something is the poem, not the poet.

Anne Sexton (1928-1974; American poet known for her confessional verse. “Interview with Patricia Marx,” The Hudson Review, Winter, 1965-66, Vol. 18, No. 4)

Ask my siblings what they think of first when they think of me, and they will probably say, “Turkey.” Mind you: they don’t think that I’m a turkey as in inept, stupid, or naïve. In fact, they are proud of their baby brother. (When you’re the youngest in any family, you’re always the baby, even when you are a Septuagenarian.) And my oldest sister Audrey, an Octogenarian, is especially proud of my blog. She’s patient enough to let me read my post to her by phone each week, the night before I publish. It’s become part of our cherished routine.

But here’s why my five siblings think of turkey first when they think of me.

They were born at home. I, on the other hand, was born in a hospital on November 20. By the time my mother and I made the trip back home–via an ambulance, no less! What an auspicious beginning, especially for a coal-camp baby!–she was not up to preparing the usual dinner for the occasion. It’s a Thanksgiving they will never forget. I won’t either. They won’t let me. The horror of it all.

Obviously, since I celebrated my 75th birthday yesterday and since Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday, the connection between the two events is nearly as strong as it was the year that I was born and knocked my family out of a turkey.

Somehow that connection has set me to thinking about other major world, national, state or local events that took place the year that I was born. Maybe everything was majorly horrific.

Indeed, some say that things are rather horrific these days. Just last week I heard someone talking about how high grocery prices are and that it’s getting harder and harder to bring home the bacon and eggs.

I don’t eat a lot of bacon, so I haven’t paid close attention to those prices, rising or otherwise.

But I’m always interested in what things cost. So I did some quick-and-dirty research. Right now, bacon costs about $7.22 per pound.

I know more about eggs than I do bacon. I bake a lot, and I buy lots and lots of eggs. Believe me: they are pricey at $3.95 a dozen.

Just for the sake of comparison, when I was born in 1947, bacon was 64 cents per pound. But don’t start salivating for the olden days. Adjusted for inflation, that pound of bacon comes to $7.76. As for the eggs, in 1947, you’d pay 70 cents for a dozen. Adjusted for inflation $8.16.

But since it’s Thanksgiving week, what about the turkey dinner? This year, it seems that a traditional, classic Thanksgiving feast is more expensive not only because of inflation but also because of supply chain interruptions and the avian flu. But just how horrific is it? The average cost of this year’s holiday meal for 10 is $64.05.

In 1947, the same meal for a family of ten cost $5.68. Again, don’t start drooling over the olden days. Adjusted for inflation, it would be $48.16.

Viewed from those inflation-adjusted perspectives, maybe it’s not that much harder to bring home the Thanksgiving dinner, the bacon, and the eggs than it was 75 years ago.

But I have to share something else with you. (Thanksgiving, after all, is all about sharing.) While I was researching my birth-year food prices, I stumbled upon my horroroscope for 1947. Oops! I meant horoscope. Somehow mine always seem so horrible that the misspelling comes naturally.

Yet let me share something utterly amazing. Even when they seem horrible–and sometimes downright insulting–I still enjoy reading them. But, hey. Don’t worry. I’m a savvy horrorscope reader. Here’s the trick that I use to always end up with the best scopes! I keep browsing until I find the one that I like. Then I grab hold and refuse to let go. Be forewarned. I am Scorpio. I never let go. Proceed at your own risk.

Still with me? You are a Brave Soul, Dear Reader! Read on.

When I stumbled upon my 1947 horrorscope, I was so intrigued that I saved it in my virtual Horrorscope Folder, along with the thousands upon thousands of others that I have saved. Do the math. Start with the age of accountability. (For me, that was four; I was remarkably precocious and precociously remarkable. And, let me assure you: I was as modest then as I am now.) Continue from that age forward with daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly horrorscopes. I am appalled not by the numbers–I just did my own math–but by the fact that I just revealed so much to the entire world. Trying to cover it up now, though, will do no good whatsoever.

So I’ll just keep right on with my reveal, picking right up with my 1947 horrorscope.

“Fierce, Intense, Ambitious, and Loyal. Scorpios question everything, and work hard to understand all things. Are very intense, loyal and kind. Jovial, Honest, Perfectionist, Protective, Inventive.”

OMG! That is so me. I’ll put this one in my Virtual Folder. KEEP.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll UNKEEP it, especially the next part that I just now saw:

“But do not take their easy going attitude for weakness. This element is known to be one of the most ferocious and powerful of them all. Be extensively cautious when they’re in an off mood and don’t force them into an unfavorable situation they don’t want to be in.”

Hmpff. I don’t like that at all. It’s not me. Well, I have an easy fix. UNKEEP. Better still, I’ll just redact it. There. I did it. You’ll probably forget the horrific assassination upon my character. I hope so. Sadly, I won’t. The insult will linger, long. And I will hang on to it, long. And I will get even.

Well, that ended up being an unexpected downer. Maybe I will recover by reviewing what my horoscope happened to be at the start of this year. I kept it, so it must have captured my fancy in one way or three:

“A brand-new Scorpio is emerging!  Welcome reinvention vibes. The year ahead evokes an important process that only happens a few times in your life. But first, you must shed layers of yourself that are no longer ‘you,’ parts of your identity that were constructed from pain or past experiences rather than forged from an authentic sense of ‘This is who I am.’ [ … ] A heart-fluttering new romance to artistic projects to buzzworthy fame […]  drawn to someone wildly different than your usual ‘type’  […] Take charge of your erotic desires, even if that exploration takes you off the beaten path.”

OMG. This is so good. Now I remember why I kept it. Thirst. KEEP. Yes. KEEP.

And what about November 19, the last day of my 74th year?

“You’ve experienced a tragic ending or two, and it’s made you distrustful of the world. But, the truth is, things are happening for and not to you. […] Embrace the transformation process […]  You’re going to meet a new version of you on the other side of this storm!”

Bring it on! I am ready! KEEP.

Better still, what about my horoscope yesterday when I turned 75?

“You’ve breathed new life into romance today […]  You […] get into an esteemed institution. […] You’ll be starting a daily connection with a new romantic interest who may actually live far away from you. Despite the practical difficulties, you are curious as to what this might develop into.”

Damms. Romance? Far away? Be still, my beating heart. That’s so good that I’m tempted to call it quits right here and now. And I’m about to wrap things up, but first things first. KEEP.

Since I started this post with food–turkey and Thanksgiving and such–I suppose it would be fitting and seemly for me to stuff a little more food into the post. Horrorscopic food, that is.

“Scorpios tend to love extremes, and they can get bored with some of the typical tastes of the Thanksgiving table, since it’s the same year after year. But with its bright flavor and candy-colored appearance, cranberry sauce keeps things interesting. From its blood-red color to its intensely sweet and tangy flavor, it adds a complex yet satisfying zing to a Thanksgiving meal. No canned cranberry sauce on Scorpio’s Thanksgiving menu, please!”

KEEP. UNKEEP.

UNKEEP because my good friend Fr–k and his good wife B–b and their good friend J—s are joining me for Thanksgiving dinner, and Fr–k specifically requested canned, jellied cranberry sauce. And he shall have it. (And he shall never know that when I reached for the canned, jellied cranberry sauce, I had to use my smelling salts to keep from passing out right there in the grocery store.)

But to be faithful to my wild and exotic Scorpionic side, I will also offer up a second cranberry sauce, with fresh cranberries popping in Grand Marnier, along with orange zest, and ground ginger. I will add candied ginger after it’s cooked, just to take it over the top. When I’m complex, I’m complex. When I take it up a notch or five, I’m better. (Thank you, Mae West.)

Maybe our hor(r)o(r)scopic contemplations aren’t so horrible after all. Maybe we can control our narratives by making inflationary adjustments, literally and metaphorically. Maybe we can make judicious decisions about our narratives: what to put in (and what to leave out). Then, with a little luck and a smidgen of stardust, maybe our narratives–our self-fulfilling prophecies–won’t be horrific after all.