Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

Who Did You Expect?

Who Did You Expect?     —by Jinny Batterson

My life so far has been fortunate—no privation, little discrimination, generally good health, many chances for love and adventure.  Much of the time, though not always, people I’ve met have lived up to (or beyond) my expectations. On those rare occasions when someone’s behavior has disappointed me, more cynical or world-weary friends have shrugged at what they regard as my naiveté. 

“Of course so-and-so let you down,” they’ve announced. “What did you expect?”  

Increasingly for me,  the appropriate question is rather “Who (or, for the grammar police, “Whom”) did you expect?”  As I mature (a work in progress), I become more aware of instances when I’ve pre-judged people and turned out to be fairly far off the mark.

The first occasion that stands out is my initial in-person meeting with the leader of our 1980 group tour to China. In those pre-internet days, I’d exchanged postal letters and paperwork with Ms. Baum and talked with her on the phone. Until we both arrived in San Francisco’s airport departure lounge for our trans-Pacific group flight to Hong Kong, I had not actually met this native New Yorker. I’d assumed from her accent and phone demeanor that she was of Jewish background. She seemed somewhat pushy and no-nonsense, ready to take on the world. I was surprised to see that she was African-American, not ethnically Jewish. She could be somewhat pushy and no-nonsense. Her prior experiences as both social worker and travel agent had prepared her well to take on whatever bureaucracy attempted to get in her way, regardless of ethnic origin or nationality. She turned out to be both different from and similar to the “who” I’d expected.

Earlier this fall, I signed up to work the polls in the 2018 mid-terms. After on-site training, I exchanged emails with the woman who’d be my site supervisor for early voting. Her written English was good, clear and simple. Her family name was a common one, her given name, ending in “a,” suggested to me she might be African-American, or maybe Hispanic-American. When we met, I could detect no skin coloring or hair texture to suggest ancestral links with Africa, no hint of foreign origin in her accent. She seemed at first a very “vanilla,” somewhat conservative American. During our work, she showed her passion for ensuring that anyone who wanted to vote was given maximum opportunities to do so. She’d sit patiently with someone lacking appropriate credentials, or with an address not yet entered into the electoral system database of rapidly growing Wake County. She knew the rules well. She could suggest pulling up an electronic copy of a utility bill on a portable phone. She might advise going home to retrieve a needed ID and then returning later in the day. In rare cases, she’d have the potential voter fill out a provisional ballot, explaining how and when to check whether their vote had been counted. The workforce she’d helped assemble to follow her lead was the most visibly diverse I’ve ever participated in. She was both different from and similar to the “who” I’d expected.    

I’ve just spent Thanksgiving with parts of my extended family that I barely knew growing up in Maryland in the 1950’s and 60’s. Only once had I had a chance to visit these North Carolina farmer cousins from a rural area near Charlotte. What little I remember from that farm stay involves ponies tame enough so even I was persuaded to take a short ride. I got to see my grandmother’s sister-in-law make glorious biscuits using milk straight from the cows. The cousins closest to my age teased me good-naturedly about my lack of country skills.

After moving to North Carolina a decade ago, I became reacquainted with some of the cousins who’d left the farm to settle in Raleigh. They’d tell me enticing stories of an extended family Thanksgiving gathering at “the shed.” I pictured the locale in my mind: an expanse of gently rolling hills, empty except for a few horses or cows grazing in pastures. “The shed” would be a slightly cleaned-up farm outbuilding. Twenty or so aging cousins of Scots-Irish ancestry would assemble for our midday meal, then say interminable grace before we could eat. Someone would have cooked a turkey and brought it still warm to the feast. We’d eat plentifully, exchange pleasantries, carefully avoid politics, and then everyone would go home.

This year as we drove into the neighborhood nearest our destination, I had trouble reconciling my mental image with current reality. The surrounding area may once have been farmland, but the vicinity had long since become part of suburban Charlotte. A mid-rise apartment complex dominated the nearest street corner. The “shed ” had been expanded and modernized from an earlier role as storage space for some cousins’ plumbing business. It was now a comfortable, well-appointed venue with adjustable seating for up to a couple hundred people. Nearly that many cousins of all ages were in attendance, along with baby equipment, pet dogs and a few footballs.

We did have a short sung grace before the long, snaking buffet line formed. We did generally steer clear of contentious political topics. People caught up on family news since the previous get-together. One 20-something cousin had recently returned from an extended Peace Corps stint in South America; in the next generation up, a househusband described his four years of helping school their daughters while his family was on assignment in southern Europe. One attendee I didn’t get a chance to talk with directly had a skin tone and accent that implied ancestry or origin in India. The Reas still cherished their rural roots and pioneering ancestors, but the clan had gotten more diverse and widely traveled—both different from and similar to the “who’s” I’d expected.

The remaining holidays of late autumn and early winter are likely to have more extended family gatherings and chance meetings. May I remember not to pre-judge those I encounter, to be more careful not to let “who I expect” get in the way of meeting current reality with an open mind and heart. 

Rea Thanksgiving at “the shed”

Thanksgiving by the Grand Canyon

Thanksgiving by the Grand Canyon   —by Jinny Batterson

This Thanksgiving season, parts of our extended family gathered in the Arizona upland town of Flagstaff, near the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. We came by car and/or by plane, converging over the course of two days at a vacation rental house we’d booked a couple of months ahead.

For Thanksgiving Day, our daughters-in-law cooked up several yummy vegetarian offerings. As a sop for the meat-eaters, Grandpa and I supplied a grocery chain rotisserie chicken.  After we’d all eaten our fill and stowed the leftovers, we swapped stories and iPhone photos, walked around town in the fading November light, then eventually retired to sleeping quarters in our spacious rental.  We spent “Black Friday” mostly indoors, but not shopping—continuing to adjust our internal clocks, nasal passages, and digestive systems to different time zones, altitudes, and local bacteria.  By Saturday, all of us were feeling somewhat perkier.

After breakfast, we loaded our crew of nine into one minivan and one rental car and headed for the Grand Canyon, with a grandparent in the back seat of each vehicle to flash our “Senior Passes” for free entry to an area of the national park along the south rim. The weather was brisk. For most of our ride, the sky was clear, with a few fluffy clouds flicking shadows across the dry, partly wooded landscape.  As we approached the canyon, the clouds thickened. By our entry to the park, we were under overcast skies. Snow flurries drifted down.

Older son had mapped out a route for his daily training jog along one of the rim trails. We dropped him at his entry point. The rest of us then walked a much shorter distance toward the Kaibab trailhead. The grandkids pawed in the snow that lined parts of the path (too dry for good snowballs). As we neared the trailhead, the air acquired an animal smell. The grandkids encountered their first mules, stabled close by. Encouraged by the middle generation, they eventually petted the mules’ heads and offered small bunches of grass gleaned from just outside the paddocks.

We heard a variety of human languages other than English, saw people in various layers of outdoor wear and varying stages of fitness. After a few minutes of watching hardier hikers descend and ascend the trail’s upper reaches, we walked back to our cars, then drove to one of the visitor center areas for lunch. Runner son reappeared as we finished eating and restocked his metabolism with pizza and fruit juice. Later, all of us took a park bus to a stop near the further end of his jog, with a couple of overlooks viewing the canyon and the river at its base. This was my third Grand Canyon visit—the first as a teen with my parents, the second at river level with spouse and teen children, and now as a granny whose grandchildren in turn will likely take a canyon river rafting trip once they’re old enough.

The canyon has always amazed me. The play of light and shadow are constantly changing the look of this “big ditch,” nearly 18 miles wide at its widest, a mile in depth at its deepest, with multiple layers of multi-hued rock from rim to river. The Grand Canyon was established as one of our earliest national parks in 1919. Parkland now covers over a million acres and includes over 270 miles of river. In 2013, the park hosted over 4 and a half million visitors, employed about 500 permanent and seasonal employees, and registered 8 fatalities.

While vacationing, we rarely paid attention to media news. Once the lot of us had returned to our primary residences, we learned of another U.S. mass shooting—this time in San Bernardino, California, a town I’d previously known only as a stop further westward from Flagstaff along historic auto Route 66, the one that “winds from Chicago to L.A.”  Increasing frequency and media attention to mass shootings gives all of us pause. We hope it’s not an enduring trend.

In retrospect, having spent part of my holiday at a site with a much longer time scale seems an even greater blessing. It helps, I think, to avoid getting overwhelmed by the tragedies of the moment to have a touchstone like the canyon. The Grand Canyon’s human history dates back nearly 12,000 years; its geological history is reckoned in eons. Its flowing waters, sometimes almost imperceptibly, have over long periods of time worn away even the hardest rock.

Thanksgiving

Thankfulness…

Happy Thanksgiving, all!  So much has been written and spoken about thankfulness, it seems wiser not to add too many of my own words to this entry, but just to point to some of the entries of others that have spoken to me:

 http://www.gratefulness.org/brotherdavid/audio.htm  (click at the left of the site to view a 5-minute video entitled  “A Good Day,” showing earthly and human beauty, narrated by monk David Steindl-Rast; also viewable on Youtube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Zl9puhwiyw)

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDqrCNjDkUM  (another 5 minutes or so of Youtube video; a David Pomeranz song “It’s in Every One of Us,” with a collage of wonderfully various and wise human faces)

http://www.questformeaning.org/reflecting/post/thanksgiving-is-sappy (a written meditation by a woman who blogs and ministers in southern Florida; “sappy” in the form of life-giving tree sap)

http://www.quotegarden.com/gratitude.html (the most eclectic list I’ve found so far of quotes by a variety of authors in a variety of traditions. One near the top of the list is a good reminder to me, when I’m tempted to complain about the loudness of the televised football game or the difficulties of getting the leftovers into the refrigerator:
The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts.  No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving.
~H.U. Westermayer)