Commentary: Thanksgiving is Thursday. Even in pandemic times, there’s much to be grateful for.
My relationship with Thanksgiving has varied. Of course I loved it as a kid. We enjoyed family gatherings with aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived elsewhere.
What lingers in memory as the Platonic ideal of “Thanksgiving” is a national magazine’s 1953 cover, a Rockwellish painting of my immediate family, plus several neighbors and strangers to make it look more festive. The artist painted it from a photograph he had taken of us in a neighbor’s beautiful old-fashioned dining room. In the foreground, as the family says grace, I’m slyly reaching with one hand to steal an olive and my father’s right hand is extended to warn me that he’ll slap me if I do. (I was young enough to complain to the artist, “But I don’t like olives!”)