© 2008 by Michael Swickard, Ph.D.
Americans have many different ways of viewing Thanksgiving, depending on when they were born and how they were raised. I am a baby boomer, the son of a military soldier, so I grew up with plenty of training and reinforcement in the act of being aware and thankful.
My world from the very beginning was one of “please and thank you.” The world I was born into, while appreciative of my talents, did not see me as the be-all end-all; rather, I was a part of something greater.
I was raised to know and care about the history of our great country from the very first Thanksgiving to now. That history is an integral part of my profound thanksgiving.
Americans are divided by descriptors like baby boomer, Generation X and the most recent, Generation Me. I have not thought much about those who are part of Generation Me other than to view them and their music with alarm, as has been done by all previous generations.
Sitting down for the Thanksgiving feast are people who bow their heads reverently and give thanks. Then there are others who mutter impatiently, “About time.” With the butter from homemade rolls on their lips this second group, many of whom are from Generation Me, carp about what has not come their way. Thankful? I should say not. Their mantra is, “I deserve this and more.” I am painting with a wide brush, so there are exceptions.
Many people consider this day a day of lassitude and gluttony, another day off from work with pay. I am susceptible to such feelings. Still, I grew up with a different view of the holiday. W. J. Cameron said, “Thanksgiving, after all, is a word of action.”
This holiday was my father’s favorite, even above Veteran’s Day. As a soldier on the frontlines for several years, I suspect he carried thoughts of the times he might have died in war, and of those who did. Alas, he never would tell stories, but at times he got that far-away look.
He was all for a holiday where we gathered to celebrate something positive. He was his most talkative — not that it was much — on Thanksgiving. One winter day in Colorado Springs, where we were living, he and I went to the store for a couple last things. I do not remember exactly what he said, but it was close to this:
On the spur of the moment I asked, “Which Thanksgiving did you like best?” He took a long puff on his cigarette and said, meditatively, “Thanksgiving 1944 in Italy.”
It was just me and him in the car. That far-away look came to his eyes. “It was the first hot meal me and my buddies had in a while. As I was sitting there eating I realized that the war was coming to an end and next Thanksgiving I had a good chance of being home. I was warm and full and happy. I have never been happier than at that moment.”
For my normally stoic father, that was more words in a row than I had heard before. We drove up to the store and he retreated back to his quiet nature. He was quite frugal with words to anyone other than those who served with him in combat. And with them they talked in code, with one or two words and knowing looks.
It took me many years to really understand what he meant with his story. I give thanks that he and 16 million other Americans gave years of their time for the war so I could grow up in freedom.
I do not know how, but we baby boomers owe Generation Me our best effort to help them develop a sense of thanksgiving. We must not fail them. One day they may find thanksgiving on their lips. It will make all of the difference in their lives if they connect with Thanksgiving.
Swickard is a weekly columnist for this site. You can reach him at michael@swickard.com.