November 20 to November 30. Somewhere between these two dates there is that part of the
year which obstructs the current momentum. I think of it already as
a dark spot in the future.
Were I a meteorologist
I might politely dismiss this part of the calendar as an occluded
front. Had I been imbued by the spirit of the Lord some two and half
thousand years ago I might call it the valley of the shadow of
death. Were I a Sharman I would begin now the dance of exorcism, and
probably I would be handsomely rewarded were I to banish those few days
from imagination. In the USA, however, the effort at banishment has
been attempted by giving that time of year the word Thanksgiving.
Celebration of the singular is pretty much an oxymoron. Lonely
things can be described, they cannot be shared. Celebration,
observance, solemnizing, whatever expression is apt, becomes joint
venture. A gathering of minds, a public performance, a joining
together. Ever so necessary for the social. And yet we are
like perennials at these gatherings. Our roots remain deep in
self. So inevitably there are clashes when expectations are
broken. And this is especially so as a celebration loses meaning.
A long time ago I gave up completely with
the idea of what I suppose might be called social joint ventures. The
clan gathering. The party. The social event. The launch of
outside influence that forces displays of individual obedience. I can
almost place the date upon which this stubbornness began to rear within
me. I was kneeling down to take my oath and someone said, "He's
not wearing socks!"
Yesterday the wife and I went together to the
post office and we then spent seven dollars plus tax on ice cream. The
wife had turtle something. I had caramel something. I was,
however wearing one sock. This was not compromise. The one sock
was for my recently damaged left foot to protect it from this humid and
unhealthy June air.
It was celebration. It was memory
of years shared. And it was fun.