We nonagenarians give thanks daily for being privileged to enjoy each additional day we are given. Nonetheless, it is only appropriate that our beloved Federal government has seen fit to set aside one day each year for all of us to express our gratitude for our numerous blessings. And, indeed, they are many – family, health, a comfortable standard of living, friends, the fortuitous accident of living in Southwestern Pennsylvania, and our rich heritage of being an American (at least the heritage we were allowed to celebrate before the advent of the “woke” revolution). We may not be able to dispute Lou Gehrig’s famous quote, “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth”, but we certainly are well above the ninety-ninth percentile in the lucky category. Let’s discuss some general concepts that reinforce that opinion.
I am thankful for independence, for the fact that I am still able to live alone and take care of most of my needs. I learned recently that this is a selfish attitude on my part; an “op-ed” in the Post-Gazette explained eloquently that one of the major causes of our country’s housing crisis is the “selfish empty-nesters” who insist in staying in the homes in which they reared their families, rather than down-sizing into small apartments or moving into retirement communities. I certainly am a prime example of that injustice; our house is ideal for a family of two adults and three children – what right have I to be rattling around in it all by myself? Perhaps none, except the fact that it works for me and provides me with all the things that I need to navigate everyday life.
This would not have been the case a century ago, or when I was a child. Thursday is my laundry day. It begins with my lugging a basketful of dirty sox, underwear, shirts, trousers, and towels two floors down to my basement. I dump a load of “hot cycle” things into the washing machine and return upstairs. An hour later I return, move them to the dryer and load the “dry cycle” things into the washer. The next trip includes lugging the dried things back upstairs, followed by a final trip with the rest. Invariably I think of my mother and her wringer washer and the massive job it was for her to do laundry, including hanging clothes up to dry (in the basement in the winter!) and realize that that would be beyond my ability today.
Each chilly morning I get out of bed and feel the warm air coming out of the vent in the bedroom, and remember my father getting up much too early in the bitter cold, stoking the furnace with coal, and getting a fire going so that the house would be warm enough for the rest of the family to get out of bed and get dressed. I have ten steps from my bed to my bathroom, and I remember visits to my father’s family home, where the same journey would be down a flight of stairs, out the front door, across the lawn and then the chicken yard, to an outhouse. No one will ever convince me there is a greater innovation than indoor plumbing! I am indeed grateful to spend my declining years in a house equipped with modern conveniences.
How can I defend my desire to spend them in this specific house? That is easy to explain – memories. I am eternally thankful for memories, and this house is filled with them. We moved into it in January, 1969, with one child not yet three, a second child nine months old, and a third who would not be born till April. This house is the story of our family, and I cherish every chapter. My wife has been gone for eight and a half years, but her presence is everywhere in the house. In the early years she hung wallpaper in every room, with a very minimum of assistance from me. Some of it is damaged, but I couldn’t bear to replace a bit. Examples of her talent in a succession of crafts are everywhere – furniture she upholstered; pottery she “threw”, decorated, and fired; exquisite paintings she produced, etc. To me, she is still very much alive, no matter where I am in the house.
The same can be said about the children, and the grandchildren. Sara’s bedroom is still her room, and memories of her permeate it. The same thing is true of John’s room, in spades. His transition to a home of his own came later in life; prior to that his room filled up with books and (primarily Steeler and Penguin) souvenirs,. Beth’s room is a different story – when I initiated my private consulting practice in 1991, I appropriated her room and turned it into an office. Of course, her frequent presence in the house more than makes up for it. When I recall all the excitement in our house when our kids were growing up, I do feel a wee bit guilty about depriving some other family of that experience. Be patient guys, your time will come! And the pets – five dogs and six dogs, many of them immortalized by Nan’s paintings – are fondly remembered as part of our family.
My life has been filled with blessings, and I am thankful for the memory of each and every one. Each additional day I can spend in this house is a blessing in itself. Give me a quiet evening in my living room with a mug of Kona coffee; a good book; Johann Sebastian Bach, Chet Baker, and Willie Nelson on the CD player; and a roaring fire in the fireplace; and I am tempted to challenge Lou Gehrig. Every day is Thanksgiving for me. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you!