I’ve always found Thanksgiving an awkward thing to really think about, given the false narrative beat into our American brains since childhood. However, recently reading Lies My Teacher Told Me by James W. Loewen (a great book for ignorant schmucks like me) made me think of something genuine to celebrate. The stories of peaceful relations between Europeans and Native Americans are mostly untrue, but the food we eat is the same food that was carefully cultivated by the people of this land since time immemorial. The spreads of squash, corn, beans, and turkey are a celebration of love for the land I live on, and the people who care for it. That is a truth to be grateful for.

I’ll leave you with an irrelevant poem that’s been on my mind lately. The whole thing is lovely, but you’ve probably heard the last stanza quoted most often. Boy does it ring in my head when I’m weary.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

With love,
Lottie