62

Today I turn 62.  In light of the occasion, there’s this sobering news.

 

 

 

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This being Thanksgiving, consider the following:  Origin myths of Pilgrims and Indians notwithstanding, let’s remember that it was in the midst of the Civil War when Abraham Lincoln permanently set Thanksgiving on November’s last Thursday. As such, we remember our great-great-grandfather George, a Pennsylvania saddler who fought in that war, and in whose saddle shop I played as a kid over a century later. (You can re-visit more details from a previous post, here.)

 

 

A national day set aside for the purpose of giving thanks takes on special significance when set against a backdrop of hard times. So now in time of global pandemic, as then in time of Civil War, we give thanks for harvest and family in the shadow of sacrifice and separation. I’m pretty sure my great-great-grandfather knew it full well, since his son Charles was born exactly 9 months after George’s Civil War service ended. That’s a happy accident for which I at age 62 – indeed all of us descended from the old saddler – are eternally grateful.  With or without a robust retirement plan.

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!