On Bein' Thankful

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 …

Less Thankin'

Speaking of which, seems like Thanksgiving is on the decline. Lots of folks take the holiday, but I see less and less of the actual giving-of-thanks. This goes along with the hordes of people living in conditions undreamed of by two-thirds the world, but still feeling short-changed somehow, and deserving a chunk of others’ possessions. Maybe too many Americans* have had it so well for so long, they can’t be thankful anymore?

Long ago, an old warrior advised me that every time I wake up, before I open my eyes, bring my hands up to head level and then extend my arms out as far as I can reach. “If you don’t feel the inside of a coffin or body bag,” he said, “You win!”

Not impressed? About 1.5 million people per week lose the life lottery. Feel better now? — Me too, every day. So far, even though human mortality is still holding at 100 percent (death has great success stats), my “Alive at Five, Every Day Plan” is working!

A while back, I had to call for roadside assistance when a tire ran flat. The young man who responded moved very smoothly for having two prosthetic legs below the knees. An Army vet, he lost ’em in an IED blast. He admired my camo, multi-toe cane; I admired his techno-cool Terminator feet, and we both grinned like monkeys.

“I’m so-o-o lucky!” he told me. “They were gonna’ have to take my left leg at the hip, but the docs saved it, and these work great! I’m going to get Cheetah flex-feet and be running again!” His eyes shone as he laughed, “Man, I really lucked out!”

*Americans: More accurately perhaps, “the current residents of a geopolitical entity; the formerly-United States of America.”

“You know what ees NOT thees?” he demands. “Eez not Russia-soldier bayonet!” He then opens his shirt and searches the maze of scars until he finds the one left by a Soviet blade. “Hyew see dees, whining one? Hyew gotz notting for to cry! You want cry? I geev yew thees!” When Shirpa’s done, if his subject ain’t properly thankful, at least he won’t dare to show it … I taught him the phrase “sissy boy,” which comes out particularly scathing and funny as heck: “Seessee-bwoi!”

Thanksgiving is here. I know I can count on you folks to remind the whiners and seessee-bwois it ain’t about holiday; it’s about giving thanks for your breath, your heartbeat, for another shot at feeling the sun on your face. And if some mutt grumbles and throws his sucker in the dirt, feel free to poke him — hard! — And demand: “You know what eez NOT thees?”

Connor OUT