These are the times that try women�s souls. At least they try mine. I�m trying to do the Thanksgiving thing but it always feels like a poor imitation around here. I regret not living nearer to lots of family. I regret marrying a vegetarian who hates football. I regret that only one of us can digest the scalloped corn dish Mr. Philately loves that is a pain to make. I know I�m supposed to be thankful at Thanksgiving but, at the moment, I�m more regretful.

Oh, I�m very, very glad that my brother is coming. He�s moved farther away from us and I was afraid that this year we would be on our own. I miss him and I�m very excited about seeing him. Thanksgiving is a particularly good time to see him because he�s a much better cook than I and will come advise me on how not to burn the turkey that only three of the five of us will eat.

Thanksgiving for me used to be almost a religious experience. It was one of my two favorite holidays. (The other is Passover.) It was close enough to religion that we almost excommunicated one of my aunts for serving ham instead of turkey (but some of us figured that living in Brooklyn was punishment enough.) Most of the cousins, including me, convinced my mother that security measures must be in place to prevent such awful happenings from occurring ever again. The most effective security measure was forcing my mother to do Thanksgiving every year. She would never serve ham instead of turkey.

Thanksgiving had real entertainment. There wasn�t just bread, there were circuses. When I was in high school, the day started with my high school losing at football to the next town over but hey, you wouldn�t want them to suddenly break with tradition, would you? Besides, winning a game would produce a shock they�d never get over. Dinner itself could be entertainment too. We could have had a pool to predict how long the homemade cranberry sauce would stand after it came out of the mold and before it lost its shape and slid off the plate.

Even the people were amusing. Every year, the kids (who ate at a separate table) would go around the table saying what they were studying in school. Anticipation was waiting to see what kind of Indians Cousin Judy was studying that year. It�s amazing that woman can read a map. She never studied maps. On the best Thanksgivings, the adults played charades with us. I�ll leave that mental image to your imagination. Suffice it to say that my mother really got into the game.

Now, I�m stuck with too few people and, of those, even fewer of them know how to celebrate Thanksgiving. I could try starting the day with the Packers and Lions and just pretend the Lions are my team and it might just work because the Lions are likely to lose. After all, I am originally from Detroit although I didn�t go to high school there. If I were willing to make cranberry sauce from scratch, I�m sure I could get it to slide off the plate. (I�m not sure that I could keep it on.) Perhaps Day-Hay would be willing to study Indians just to say she was doing so and I certainly will not serve ham (for all the difference that makes to the two vegetarians.)

I guess I�ll have to fly my parents out here next year. Charades, anyone?

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