‘Never more dear than in a thoughtful hour like this
Are the faces around the table; each stands out
More sharply than before, and is looked at longer.
And smiles are deep, from behind the eyes,
And somewhat quizzical, lest they go too far in tenderness.”
The lines are from Edna St Vincent Millay’s poem “Thanksgiving:1950”.
I’ve recited parts of it before at my Thanksgiving table (I always recite a poem, it’s my indulgence for the intense work I’ve done). But I don’t think I ever included that verse before last Thursday.
My daughter and I can’t argue with anyone without getting mad. So I spoke to her before she came home, promising to restrain myself, and asking that we make a pact not to let the holiday degenerate into inter- generational jihad.
But actually, I think she and the other “kids” had reached the same kind of agreement inter se.
On the one hand, this was great. The table was loud and jolly and it turned out there was lots to talk about which did NOT involve Trump, Hamas, Ukraine, after all.
On the other hand, it means that, with the best will in the world, we’ve given up on each other. The only way we can get along is to do violence to our own opinions,
As the hostess, I’m not complaining. I had the convivial feast I wanted.
But as a mother, I’m sad: our children don’t consider us even worth arguing with. And I reckon that goes both ways.
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Ditto.
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I can count on one hand the number of my family and friends that are able to discuss and argue about important current topics. I treasure those few and am sad about the rest.
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