Family feuds erupting about how to prepare the turkey, awkward silences emerging after one too many brandy old-fashioneds, the black sheep of the family feeling the necessary urge to beg for attention. Yes, once again Thanksgiving is upon us. However, Thanksgiving should not be about the ills of a family-what it should be about is love and warmth and all the pleasantries of life that make another four years of Bush an almost tolerable evil. And with the amount of petty mud-slinging the Democrats are trudging through, Bush for four more could be a reality at this time next year. With Bush, we could get four more years of the U.S. economy going down faster than a coed on Lee Evans after a five-touchdown performance. We could get four more years of hastily planned invasions of third-world countries, because the companies that build bombs, guns and jets put a lot of their money in Georgie Boy's pocket book.
But I digress and I digress in a most negative fashion. This column is about celebrating family and about celebrating Thanksgiving.
For me, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year for the simple fact that it celebrates being alive and amidst the ones you love. Family members die and memories fade but there is always the perpetual notion of family. In whatever form or shape a family takes, they are the ones you love and will care for most when they are gone.
For me, I've never had to question being loved; it's always been there as a constant, like the oceans or Earth itself. I have never had to fear for lack of being loved. For this I'm eternally grateful.
Growing up I can remember meals of epic proportions with leftovers that seemingly had no beginning or end. I can recall the smell of my grandmother's perfume, the twinkle in my grandfather's eye. I can recall my Papa shaking my hand, patting me on the back and saying I'd grow up to be all right, with the conviction most people put in knowing the sun will rise tomorrow. I can remember my Nana showing up with hugs, kisses and cookies.
Most importantly I can remember my parents. My dad carving the turkey, cracking lame jokes and sitting at the foot of the table quietly, the perfect bookend to my loud and jovial mom seated at the head of the table. Then there is my mom, the one with the energy to cook a monstrous Thanksgiving supper, the one with the talent to make her own pie crusts for her perfect pumpkin pies. And my mom, the one with the strength to know fear but to reject it, to know anger and hatred and to reject them and my mom the one to teach love and to abide by it.
-Brian Lauvray is a senior majoring in history. He can be reached at bllauvray@wisc.edu.
