Going to Walden
by: Mary Oliver
It isn't very far as highways lie.
I might be back by nightfall, having seen
The rough pines, and the stones,, and the clear water.
Friends argue that I might be wiser for it.
They do not hear that far-off Yankee whisper:
How dull we grow from hurrying here and there!
Many have gone, and think me half a fool
To miss a day away in the cool country.
Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish,
Going to Walden is not so easy a thing
As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult
Trick of living, and finding it where you are.
Mary Oliver chooses not to make the pilgrimage to Walden, even though she lives close by. She refuses the temptation of the rough pines, stones, and clear water. Of skipping stones across the pond with the ghost of Thoreau. For Oliver, it seems, Walden is more than a historic place; it's a mindset, a way of living that is slow and difficult to achieve.
It is Thanksgiving Day in the United States. If you read my post from last night, you already know the problematic history of the holiday, especially for the Indigenous population of this land. For me, I don't so much celebrate the myth of pilgrims and Native Americans sitting down to a feast in Plymouth Colony. Instead, I celebrate the act of giving thanks for the blessings in my life--my family and friends and good health and good food. Although I should do this every day of my life, it is this particular day that occurs once a year that reminds me how truly lucky I am.
This morning, my wife, son, puppy, and I participated in a local 5K Turkey Trot. It was a cold walk, in the mid-twenties for temperatures with a punishing wind. It wasn't easy. Yet, I recognized the grace of the moment. I was with two of the people I love most in my life, and everyone around us was smiling, laughing, and calling out, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
The rest of the day was much of the same: gatherings with loved ones to eat and drink and laugh and share. I missed seeing my daughter, who is with her significant other in Wisconsin celebrating the holiday. But, I know that she is loved and safe and healthy where she is. I received texts from close friends wishing me glad tidings (that sounds old-fashioned, but that's what the messages were), and now I'm home, in my pajamas, fighting a tryptophan coma as I type these words.
I did end up having Thanksgiving dinner with my sisters after all, and they both worked hard all day to prepare the feast, using a family recipe for the stuffing, tons of cream and butter in the mashed potatoes. By the time I ate my last bite of pecan pie, I felt like a beached beluga. And I could feel the spirits of absent family members gathered at the table with us--my dad, who loved stuffing; my mother, who loved pecan pie; my sister, Sally, and brother, Kevin, who both loved pumpkin pie; and my sister, Rose, who loved everything about Thanksgiving.
It has truly been a day to give thanks, filled with light, laughter, and love.
Saint Marty doesn't need a guardian angel named Clarence to convince him that he has a wonderful life.
A Thanksgiving poem for this night . . .
Pecan Pie
by: Martin Achatz
Mix eggs, sugar and Karo,
melted butter, vanilla from Mexico
in a bowl until it all runs
yellow as corn silk. Add pecans,
one-and-a-quarter cups. Fold
them into the gold syrup,
the way a farmer folds
manure into a field of hay
or my son folds a Tootsie Roll
under his tongue, plants it there,
lets it feed the furrows
of his young body. Pour this filling
into a shell, edges fluted
by my wife's hands, crimped
between thumb and forefinger
to peaks and troughs of dough.
Bake at 350 degrees.
Forty-five minutes to an hour.
You'll know when it's done.
The house will smell
brown and warm and sweet.
Dip a butter knife blade
into the center of the pie.
If it comes out hot and clean,
take the pie out of the oven. Put it
on the front porch to cool.
You can leave it there overnight.
It'll be waiting in the morning.
Cover it with a hand towel. Carry
it to your parents' house,
where your mother asks you
"Is it cold outside?"
over and over as you cut
the pie. "Yes," you tell her.
And "yes" when she asks again.
It is cold this Thanksgiving.
And, yes, pecan pie is her favorite.
Give her a large slice,
with extra Cool Whip
and a hot cup of coffee.
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