During this season of thanksgiving, I'm sharing a blog from a great trainer and professional that our agency uses for our supervisory and management training. Stephen Kent of The Results Group. He's a Veteran, with four decades of expertise consulting and training on Leadership Development, Team Building, Business Consulting, Management Consulting, Change Management, and Executive Coaching, (https://theresultsgroupltd.com/ ). He's allowed me to share his recent blog on Thanksgiving and I hope you'll enjoy as I did.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Chief Robert Spinks
Thanksgiving ... Redux
... and gifts of small fortunes.
Stephen L. Kent
Nov 25, 2024
Thanksgiving has always been and continues to be my favorite among American holidays.
On Thanksgiving I am not obligated to buy anyone gifts nor are they guilted into buying anything for me. There are no requirements that children noisily skulk about in the dark dressed as mythological beings or beasts extorting treats throughout the neighborhood. There are neither cakes to decorate; ceremonial prom outfits; trees to insult with artificial decorations; barbeques; nor boxes of chocolate. There are neither eggs hidden in the yard; rigid nationalistic, lockstep deference to flags, statues, murderous European invaders, or dead presidents; nor are there obligatory religious services during which a haughty, somber pastor reminds me to shape up or be doomed to an eternity in Hell.
For me, Thanksgiving is about family. It is simply about being intentionally thankful ... something we're not particularly good at here in sound-bite-driven, "hey, what's next?" entitlement-oriented America. For me, Thanksgiving is a day to embrace certain, small fortunes - memories - whomever and wherever we might be.
For me, those small fortunes include childhood memories of family gatherings at Thanksgiving.
Until I was thirteen years old my family lived in a series of small communities clustered around Tulsa, Oklahoma. My father worked a variety of jobs as a laborer doing the dirty boots and knuckle-bruising work of vehicle servicing and repair in gas stations and garages that smelled of stale oil stains, brake fluid, and post-World War II dreams. He didn't make a lot of money (actually, no one made a lot of money in those days) but he always had a job - something that I cannot claim to have accomplished.
As a young Okie child of a long-time Okie family, I recall the laughter and unintelligible chatter among my uncles and my Dad¹ filling the living room at the home of one of my Dad's siblings. Not once in my entire childhood did we host Thanksgiving or any other such large family event at our own house. Wherever we lived our houses were simply too small to accommodate such a murmuration of family and extended family members.
Those unpretentious, handsome young men, all in their late twenties to mid-thirties at the time, arranged themselves in a circle, casually sitting on recliners, crowded together on the couch, on the wooden floor, and perched on sturdy wooden kitchen chairs. There was not a television in sight; this was a home on a dirt road with an outhouse.
There in that smoke-filled room dotted with ashtrays brimming with smoldering cigarettes and steaming cups of black coffee, they made their own entertainment. A couple of them cradled battered, acoustic guitars and with the simple three-chords of rural music they earnestly offered their renditions of the plaintive, nasal relationship failures of Hank Williams; the life-woes of young Johnny Cash; the clever lyrics of Tennessee Ernie Ford; spunky Patsy Cline (who was, for reasons I did not then understand, falling to pieces) and the Big Band melodies of a young Tulsan with whom my Mother attended high school named Clara Ann Fowler, known to the world as Patti Page.
The world was a simpler and - for the most part - an acoustic place in those days. Rock & Roll as we know it was half a generation away and its seminal, jostling, brash, sometimes angry melodies were to be fearfully shunned. In those days, one of my cousins acquired an electric guitar, plucked away at a song that perfectly telegraphed the coming music revolution called, "Raunchy" and was quietly branded as a shameful heretic - perhaps even, a budding, godless communist.
In the hours just before dinner, the family men also played dominoes and engaged in good-natured banter with the winners and losers of the ancient game.
Alcohol was not allowed in such gatherings; my tightly wired, quite religious aunts would have been indignantly apoplectic had the topic of such amusement even been whispered about. They professed to have little interest in such fun. Yet, despite the symbolic modesty implied by their mid-calf-length skirts, there were quite an impressive number of babies and small children sleeping or flitting about ... and at least one on the way.
The only illicit beverage that might be consumed on such days was acquired during secretive trips to a car trunk that belonged to one of my uncles who also happened to be a backcountry bootlegger.
The men told stories of hunting birds and rabbits and enthusiastically recounted the tale of a sixty-plus-pound channel catfish with which one of my uncles once battled; ultimately consumed at the very table we are to eat dinner upon; and whose gaping cartilage-ringed, open mouth my uncle mounted over his garage door. It remained thusly prominent for decades and sparked many a re-telling of the grand day my uncle prevailed in battle over such a magnificent behemoth.
In that long-ago living room, some watched; some participated at the center of events; some talked; some listened. Some smiled; some were pensive, staring toward an imaginary horizon. Some sang; some hummed out of tune.
But they were all there. Together.
I saw that world from the vantage point of a three-foot tall pre-adolescent ²... my eyes only as tall as the waist-line of adults ... always looking up to see their faces, to watch their laughter, to seek their approvals, to hear their voices as they spoke of grownup things.
They spoke of hard work and sore muscles and of dealing with life's setbacks as adults and - without fanfare or hubris - they simply declared in how they went about their day-to-day lives that it is what adults are supposed to do.
On Thanksgiving, the beautiful, young family mothers³ teamed in the kitchen variously sharing news from their own neighborhoods; cooking, cleaning dishes and silverware and pots and pans; laying out place settings on the adult table and on the kids' tables scattered throughout the kitchen and dining area. It seemed that my Mother or one or more of my aunts was perpetually holding an infant on her hip while simultaneously checking the oven's progress on the turkey and dressing; gently re-directing an errant toddler's path; setting aside pies to cool; stirring great mounds of mashed potatoes; placing serving spoons in bowls brimming with corn, jello, yams smothered in melted marshmallows and green beans cooked in bacon grease. Their unspoken, precise choreography created a recital filled with unforgettable aromas and tastes and delicious promises of soon-to-be holiday gluttony.
While children were not excluded from those annual living room gatherings or the chaos of kitchen work, we were discouraged from doing children things that might distract the adults - like laughing, talking, moving around, or breathing. Most of us preferred to play outside even in the often bitter cold of autumn Oklahoma.
Cheeks burning - slapped cherry-red by the frigid air - we ran like the wind across the sparse, yellowed winter grass, chasing after one another, playing tag, kicking cans, wiping our dripping noses on flannel sleeves, exhaling frosted fog breaths, and laughing as would frenzied demons until we were chilled to the bone and exhausted and could run no more for the day.
Oh, what a day, Thanksgiving! I looked forward to it and still think of it fondly.
At Thanksgiving dinner family adults seated themselves at the main table next to their respective spouses; children fidgeted at small tables originally used for card games and babies suckled bottles or soundly slept lying in bassinets throughout the house.
Then, suddenly, with little more than a look from the head of the host household, total silence.
The room was cozy and warm and safe and all who were present were still and at peace.
With impatience and awe, I looked up at that gathering of tall people from my tiny table.
Everyone cast their eyes downward to their empty plates hand-in-hand with those sitting on each side of them. The mouth-watering perfume of the imminent feast engulfed the entire room and everyone within it.
Someone solemnly thanked the family God (at extraordinary length in my hungry youngster judgment) for the meal and for all their worldly belongings and asked that all the gathered loved ones be blessed and remain healthy for the coming year.
As the speaker's last syllable fully dissipated, eager hands dived for the greatest of feasts of all time - everyone talking at once, passing around and sharing heaping bowls and plates of Thanksgiving.
For that one day all interpersonal conflicts, grudges, anger, and hurt feelings were set aside. For that one day, all gossip was set aside. Cheerful discussions at that table were confined to the whereabouts and rumored shenanigans of family members who failed to show up or to the amusing antics of offspring, co-workers, and fellow churchgoers. Any problems, disagreements, or rivalries among family members were neither talked about nor acknowledged in the public forum that was Thanksgiving.⁴
On that one day, my family gathered to create small, treasured fortunes that remain with me to this day.
I am thankful for such fortunes. In many small ways, they made me who I am.
Those hardworking, devout people taught me that forgiveness and cooperation are possible when you set your mind to it - even if you must bite your tongue while doing so; that speaking kindly of others when they're not present is what adults are supposed to do; that taking care of one another even when the other person is painfully annoying is not optional; that creating safe places is what civilizations and societies and families and individuals are supposed to do.
They taught me that work might be unpleasant at times but that you need to work with others - even multi-tasking amid behind-the-scenes chaos so other people can be happy with the products of your labor. They taught me that work is not a personal identity - it was what you had to do so you could do what you wanted to do. You were supposed to work so you could afford a place to live and catch big, ugly fish and hunt birds and rabbits and buy the stuff that makes fine Thanksgiving dinners.
My grandparents, my parents, and most of my aunts and uncles have long ago passed to their well-deserved places elsewhere in the Universe. I have only one uncle and one aunt remaining - both now in their nineties. The few remaining dear cousins with whom I enjoyed those long-ago Thanksgiving days are now, as am I, in their seventies, and a couple of them are in their eighth decades.
Periodically my brother, my cousins, and I gather using social media messages, phone calls, and nationwide video visits. I especially enjoy the video visits because I can see their beautiful faces and catch up on the triumphs and hardships of their current lives. I get to see them again as the 1950s children they still are - in their eyes, in their hearts, and in the small fortunes they continue to pass along to me.
During such visits, we speak kindly of those not present. We also recount memories of our long-ago childhoods and remember with mixtures of amusement, joy, fondness, and sorrow those beloved family members who are no longer with us.
"Oh her?! I remember her! Remember when she ...?" someone will say.
"Him? Oh, you know he was a ... " another responds.
And we all smile.
Together.
I am thankful for them, for their own memories, and for the unique perspectives of their stories. I hope to see many of them in person in 2024 - perhaps we'll sit around in a family circle, play dominoes, and tell the stories that old people tell about the days when we were young and innocent and had to look up to see what adults were saying and doing so we might learn who we were to become. Perhaps someone will strum an acoustic guitar.
Oh, and I am thankful that I am now tall.
You see, I have earned the honor of and the obligations that come with sitting at the adult table, and, thanks to all those people - and thousands of others who knowingly or unknowingly endowed me with small fortunes - I look the world square in the eye.
And for that, I am intentionally thankful.
