Recently, I ran into a guy I hadn’t seen in five years. He ogled at my new scars (I call ’em epidermal ornamentation) and my jaunty stance of leanin’ on my lunar-lander walker-cane. He then mumbled some crap amounting to, “Oh, poor you! Aw, that’s awful! How horrible for you!”
You know the type. His 5-star dinner is ruined because Chez Henri’s is outta’ cherry-amaretto-walnut ice cream for dessert. And he’s one of those who thinks anybody who’s hit a coupla’ potholes on the road of life must, be crushed, miserable and moanin’ because he dang sure would be. Hey, I didn’t say he’s a friend; just some guy.
He’s also the sort who’s nonplussed when a guy like me smiles and says, “Nah; I’m doin’ great, and man, am I thankful! I’d count my blessings, but I can’t count that high.”
Here’s a kinda’ Connor CAT-scan slice: Sometimes when the Memsaab Helena is putting donkey-liniment on my back and feelin’ all those lumps, squiggles an’ knots which were not “original issue,” I can feel her hands tremble; chokin’ up; sometimes I feel the tears pattering. Then she’ll squeeze me gently and whisper, “Oh, thank God, John … Just thank God.” I know what she’s thankful for, and it ain’t the scars and broken bits.
And a warm sirocco of gratitude blows over me; faithful friends, a loving wife, great kids; worthwhile work and the feeling that I can still make my own way and contribute to the good; earning the food I eat and the air I breathe. Yeah, I’ve got tons to be thankful for, and no regrets.
Pass the turkey and a big slice a’ THANKS, please …