Is It Time to Move Thanksgiving?

Happy 2014.  Now all of the holidays are behind us.  The Christmas decorations have been taken down, the New Year celebrations are over and resolutions are fresh in our minds.  Thanksgiving seems like a distant memory, even though it was barely a month ago.  We blame it on the whirlwind of activity since then, but maybe there’s another reason why it’s blurry in our minds.

It’s being eaten by Christmas.

Last year Thanksgiving had the nerve to occur on November 28^th, which cost the American consumer SIX WHOLE DAYS of shopping convenience.  But, some retailers took a bigger bite out of Thanksgiving by opening that day.  We saw it coming.  They’ve been looking at it and drooling for years, taking a bigger portion and thinking nobody was paying attention.  You know—like Aunt Helen thinking nobody noticed here sneak an extra dinner roll or eat a second piece of pecan pie.

I guess we can’t blame them.  Thanksgiving is so good everybody wants a taste.  Everybody, that is, except the hordes of people camping for days on end in front of the big box stores, hoping to lead the charge in shopping battle known as Black Friday.  

But Black Friday has turned in Grey Thursday.  I guess if you’re being forced by your employer to skip that time with your family and friends so you can ring up sales for greedy, often violent consumers, Grey Thursday is the right term for the holiday formerly known as Thanksgiving.

I know I’m going to sound like a crotchety old man for talking about the 1980s when I worked in retail.  The stores were closed on Thanksgiving but we still got paid something for that day, depending on the average number of hours we worked per week.  Black Friday meant we opened an hour early and closed an hour later than usual.  There were no stampedes, pepper spray, injuries, or parking lot tent cities.  Yet, somehow, people got their Christmas shopping done.

Here’s one reason why people in other countries hate us: those videos that go viral that show Americans shoving each other out of the way and trampling each other like their lives depended on being the first one to lay their hands on a Play Station.  We don’t have soccer hooligans.  We have competitive shopping hooligans.  Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.

I propose we move Thanksgiving before it is absorbed by Christmas.  Maybe early October would be far enough away to save it, though I’m not even sure about that.  Stores already have Christmas decorations up at Halloween, which is downright creepy when you think about it.

Some might argue November is the traditional time tor Thanksgiving, but you can buy turkey, cranberries, canned pumpkin and everything else you need year-round thanks to canning and freezing.  There’s nothing traditional about how the holiday is currently observed.  

The day was set aside to be thankful for what you have.  A good way to do that is with a feast, not working in a crowded store for minimum wage, waiting on people who haven’t bathed in a week because they camped outside for a week.

I’m not trying to be morally superior here.  I’ve been just as guilty as anyone about stuffing my face and having my tryptophan coma in front of the TV without a shred of gratitude.  But, in recent years I’ve made a conscious effort to spend at least part of the day feeling thankful.  

Black Friday stampede.  Photo: nydailynews.com

Another reason to move Thanksgiving: winter weather.  Every year we see new stories about people stuck in airports or their cars because snow or ice crashed the party.  Here in the northern hemisphere the weather can do some tricky things that time of year.  It only adds to the stress some people have over the holidays.  Let’s have Thanksgiving at a time of year when over the river and through the woods can’t turn into over the ice and through the blizzard.

Think of Thanksgiving as a car parked next to a big box store that’s being expanded.  Move it or lose it.

The Gratitude Rollercoaster

The other day I had a great day trading stocks.  I flipped a stock that rose quickly.  It was the most profitable fifteen minutes of my life.  The euphoria had me pacing around the room, yelling, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and making whooping sounds.  What a great way to start a day.

The next day I noticed that same stock rocketing upward and bought it, only to see it collapse.  In a panic I dumped it.  Then it shot up higher than ever.  I ended up giving back about one-third of my profit from the day before.  And I felt really, really stupid.  

Sure, there was still a nice chunk of change left over.  But nobody likes feeling stupid, especially when it costs a few hundred dollars.  This and a few other minor irritants dampened my mood.  It wasn’t a terrible mood.  I’d give it a C- if moods had a report card.

A short time later I went to a checkup with my oncologist.  When I arrived I saw the waiting room was packed.

“Great.  I’m going to have to wait a long time,” I thought pessimistically.  But within three minutes I was called back for my blood draw.  Then I had an even shorter wait to see the doctor.

But, that brief time in the waiting room was enough to remind me of how bad I used to feel when I had cancer and waited to have lab work done and see the doctor.  Looking around, I saw some pretty sick people and their loved ones sitting there with them.  It was never hard for me to realize cancer patients felt awful whenever I saw them.  This time I knew how they felt.

Three years ago right now I was dreading chemotherapy, which began the Monday after Thanksgiving.  The cancer was diagnosed the first week of November, which meant the entire month was spent with a dark cloud over me.

Fasten your seatbelt.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Aside from losing weight, my hair, and my lunch, I knew little else about the side effects of chemo.  I tried to prepare myself physically, mentally, and emotionally as best I could.

Those few minutes waiting to see the oncologist upgraded my mood to an A.

I don’t have cancer!  There is nothing for me to dread.

This Week's Book Excerpt

This part is taken from What Didn't Kill Me Made Me Stronger.  It was in summer, 1992 after I had a vitrectomy.  It's an eye surgery that removes blood inside the eye's vitreous fluid after a hemorrhage.  After that, I never took fireworks for granted again.

Fireworks

The next vitrectomy was five days before my birthday.  On the fifth day after such an eye surgery, the bandages come off permanently.  For me, the most memorable gift that year was getting to take the bandage off my eye.  As before, the world looked extremely bright and out of focus, though it was a big improvement from before the surgery.  As before, I was also confident that my vision would continue to get better over the next couple of weeks.  After that, my vision would remain at that level …at least until something else happened.

I don’t want to make you think I was pessimistic.  The truth is I was as optimistic as ever.  But it was optimism with an underlying foundation of realism.  The jolt of the last eye hemorrhage had driven home an undeniable reality: I could lose my vision at any time, no matter how good it might get in the meantime.  In some tiny, remote part of my brain, I understood that total blindness was a likely outcome in the end.  It wasn’t a matter of if, but a matter of when.  Again, this wasn’t a pessimistic outlook.  It was a survival instinct at work, telling me to be prepared.  I didn’t want to be caught off guard again.

My days were spent taking long walks, watching TV, and listening to books on tape.  But this time, I took more notice of the colors around me.  They were more vibrant.  My vision improved gradually, and I took full advantage of being able to see.  Each day, I could see something that I couldn’t see the day before.  My vision reached a level that I was happy with, even if it wasn’t back to where it was the year before.

Then my parents and I were invited to Don and Ann Williams’ fortieth wedding anniversary party on a riverboat docked on the Arkansas River at Van Buren.  Dinner was served on the boat while we cruised up and down the river between Fort Smith and Van Buren.  It was very enjoyable – the first fun thing I had done in a long time.  Several members of their large extended family stopped by our table to ask me how I was doing and say how glad they were that I was there.  It was good to be out of the house and out of the hospital, and able to look around without a bandage over my eye or a dark spot inside of it.

A music festival was happening on the Fort Smith side of the river while we were on the boat.  After dark, they shot fireworks.  All of us had finished eating, and we gathered at the rail of the boat and watched.  For me, the sight was one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen.  The show wasn’t anything out of the ordinary as far as fireworks go.  It didn’t last longer than most.  But I was getting to see it with my newly healed eye, and that changed everything.  The bright colors of the starbursts high above us were clear as they lit up the night.  The river below reflected the brilliant light, broken into hundreds of points of color on the waves.  It was beautiful, and I didn’t take it for granted, even if it wasn’t quite as clear as it would have been a year before.

Tears of joy streamed silently down my face as I stood on the dark boat. 

Just keep quiet.  Don’t draw attention to yourself.  It’s their anniversary, so don’t make this all about you.

Around me, other people made the usual sounds people make when watching fireworks. 

“Can you see them OK?” asked Mom.

“Oh yes, I can see it all just fine.”  I was beside myself.  Something as simple as watching fireworks had filled me with joy.  It may have been Ann and Don’s party, but these fireworks were meant for me.  This was my reward for what I had been through.  This was God.  I just knew it.

That night, I vowed never to miss fireworks if I had a chance to see them.  Never again would I take for granted the ability to look up at the dark sky and see a kaleidoscope of fire and color and smoke.  From then on, it would be sacred.  And since then, that’s exactly how it has been.

Read more excerpts from Jim's book at JimFairbanks.nethttp://www.jimfairbanks.net/id30.html.

Art Filtered Through My Eyes

It sounds like the setup of an off-color joke (of which I am a fan).  “A legally blind guy goes to an art museum and . . .”   

A couple of months ago, Alice Walton spent part of her Wal Mart fortune to open Crystal Bridges, a world-class art museum in Bentonville, just a few miles up the road from where I live.  She’s been collecting works by American artists for quite some time and went on a bit of a shopping spree in recent years when she decided Northwest Arkansas deserved an affordable (in this case FREE) place for common folk to be exposed to culture.  This irritated some of the snobs in big cities who said, “We can’t lose our fine art to Arkensaw.”

Others were bothered by the Wal Mart connection.  Don’t worry.  This isn’t a political, class warfare rant.  Though I must say, I love the irony of the Wal Mart fortune buying the portrait of George Washington that appears on the dollar bill.  I’ll never look at my money quite the same way after yesterday.  The fact that it’s in one of the poorest states in the nation makes it that much sweeter.

From the time I was old enough to hold a crayon in my hand it was obvious I had a gift and interest in art.  I wasn’t a jock or particularly good-looking, but I could draw better than the other kids.  Adults told me to treasure that gift.  Later, like most adults, I had to pay bills, which left no time for creativity.  But I majored in Advertising in college, so I was able to take art classes for that.

In the months before and in the year after my kidneys failed, I once again had the time for art.  To my surprise, the skill came back like it had only been a few weeks instead of several years.  Even with reduced eyesight, I could still do it.  In 2001 I was living in Little Rock and took some classes at the Arkansas Arts Center.  My ability actually improved.

Now my vision is worse than it was then, but I still like to look at great art, valuable or not, so I was happy for the opportunity to see it without having to leave hillbilly country to do it.  With all this fine art in our midst, people are going to have to recalculate the relationship between hillbillies and art.

I took my cane and was glad I did.  There were some sculptures in pedestals, small items in glass cases, and some big, fragile pieces of modern art assembled on platforms about a foot off the ground.  It would have been embarrassing, and possibly expensive, to have stumbled onto one of them.  Maybe I could have passed it off as performance art, but I didn’t want to take the chance.  I’m sure I must have confused some of the other visitors who thought I was totally blind.  Anyone who watched long enough would have seen me squint and bend or lean closer for a better look.  I wore a pair of small binoculars around my neck, which I sometimes used to see smaller details.

One nice thing about Crystal Bridges is that people can walk right up to the art as long as they’re eighteen inches from it.  Most of the time, that was close enough for me.  Paintings with only dark colors were problematic.  Those with bold contrasts between light and dark were my favorites. 

As for the lighting, it was pretty good throughout most of the museum.  I’m a big fan of natural light in most situations, but on this sunny day, it was too much glare in rooms that relied heavily on it.  No one else seemed to have a problem, though.  Maybe the next time I go (and there will be a next time) it will be an overcast day and it will make a difference.

The museum’s architecture is part of the experience, but I was out of luck there.  The architect’s scale model was in one area, so I got an idea of how interesting it looks from the outside.  It was in one of the areas where glare bothered me most.  From what I’ve been told and heard on the news, it blends in with the Ozark terrain and makes use of the natural beauty of its surroundings.  It’s fine art, Ozark Mountain style.  That’s how we expect—make that demand--things to be done in this neck of the woods.  You can make improvements on what’s here, but you’d better honor what’s already here. 

With the help of someone reading the small cards to the right of each piece, and the overhead menu at the restaurant, my day at Crystal Bridges was complete.  Sure, my eyes got tired and I realized how out of shape my legs are after walking for over four hours, but I was still able to enjoy it.  As long as I have enough vision to distinguish between light and dark, I’ll do everything I can to look at what artists have created.

That means you don’t have any excuse not to.

A legally blind guy went to an art museum and . . . he was very grateful for the experience.

Mister Magoo Goes to Philadelphia

OK, it’s a catchy headline, but I don’t want it for a new nickname.  Recently, I took a vacation to Philly.  It was the first time I flew alone since before my vision decreased in 2003.  That time, I went to Chicago.  In 2008 I flew with a friend to Boston.  I like going to big cities.  I’m developing a fondness for the Northeast.

Not seeing well enough to watch the movie or read on the flight gives me time to think.  I realized how much happier and healthier I am this fall than last fall, when the cancer was diagnosed.  Then I flipped back through the fall of ’09, ’08, etc. and discovered that this is the happiest fall I’ve had in quite a while.  It set the tone for the next few days.

Who says re-circulated air is bad for the brain?

I’ll admit I was nervous about flying alone.  But I notified United Airlines of my visual limitations and they had some meet and assist me to the gate I needed.  When I changed planes in O’Hare, a young man was there with a wheelchair.  There’s nothing wrong with my legs and pride almost made me tell him I would just walk beside him.

Then I remembered how big O’Hare is and all the times I changed planes in big airports when I worked for airlines.  A ride would have been nice back then.  So I rode for about twenty minutes.  The concourse was a blur of moving people, passing waiting areas, and brightly-lit shops and restaurants.  The aroma of different kinds of food rose and fell away.  Seafood.  Italian.  Hamburgers.

Near my gate, I ordered a small pizza from a man with an accent like John Belushi’s character in the Saturday Night Live sketch who said “Cheeburger, cheeburger.”  One big difference was this guy was extremely helpful and took me to the last available table where I had plenty of time to relax and eat. 

At Philadelphia I was met by another airline employee with a wheelchair.  This one told me he had MS and I almost offered to push him if he would tell me where to turn.  That would have stressed us both out more than it was worth.  My friend, Alan, drove me to his home in a suburb in the rush hour traffic.  We ate at a diner where they have me a huge sandwich.  The fries and a cup of Manhattan Clam Chowder were standard sides that went with it.  It's a Philly thing.  I was stuffed.

I should point out that, for me, any trip out of town means sampling the local cuisine—or at least food I can’t get here.  A big part of my travel budget includes food—anything from street vendors to fine dining.  I don’t leave my stomach and taste buds at home, so they should enjoy the trip too.

Saturday was the busiest day.  We went to Center City (their term for downtown) and stopped by Reading Terminal Market (or as I call it, Food Hog Heaven).  It’s like a mall food court on steroids, but with A LOT more choices and without the annoying mall.  I tried a Pennsylvania Dutch turkey sausage on a bun, known in many parts as a hot dog.  It tasted better than the average hot dog, though.

I could have spent a few hours there, but we had a 1:00 appointment to see Independence Hall and were told to be there early.  Alan guided me through the bustling big city streets and I wished I could see more of it.  He pointed out a few things along the way and I squinted in the bright sunlight to make them out.  It’s a National Park, so a funny park ranger with an encyclopedic knowledge of history quizzed us and kept us laughing. 

It didn’t take long for me to realize sighted friends with digital cameras come in handy at times like this. 

     “Can you see the design on the ceiling?” Alan asked.

     I squinted up at it, “Nope.  Take a picture of it.”  I knew I could probably see it with the magnifier program on my computer.  My only regret is not being more aggressive and elbowing my way to the front of the crowd.  My cane was unfolded, so they would have given me right of way.  If they wouldn’t have, the cane doubles as a weapon.

The Liberty Bell is next door.  It’s in front of some tall windows, so the light in my face kept me from seeing the famous crack very well.  But, it’s much bigger than I thought it was, so that made the rest of it easy to see.  We could walk all the way around it.  With the light shining from behind me, I saw the back of it much better.

On the way to Betsy Ross’ house, we stopped at an old cemetery where Ben Franklin is buried.  It was frustrating not to be able to read the headstones.  Alan told me some of them were worn too smooth to read.  It was easy enough to make out the size and shape of all those tall headstones, though.  Really old cemeteries have always fascinated me.

Later that afternoon, we found ourselves back at (surprise!) Reading Terminal Market.  I was hungry and wanted to sample new things.  One such item was from the Middle Eastern food stand.  It was ground lamb and beef with pine nuts in a thin dough shell that was fried.  I could taste spices like the ones used in pumpkin pie.  All I remember about the name is that it started with a K.  It was the best tasting thing I ate all weekend!

After that, we stopped at the Jewish deli, where I tried a kanish.  Let’s just say it had a tough act to follow.  I was hoping for something spicier.  Alan told them I’m from Arkansas, so they felt sorry for me and let me sample a bite of lox.  It’s very salty smoked salmon.

Somewhere along the way I had gourmet coffee from Central America and a shrimp eggroll.  It was good, but I’ve had Chinese food too many times to count. 

The last stop on my gastronomic world tour was the Italian bakery.  It was almost closing time and the line was pretty long.  It was worth the wait.  We both ordered cannoli and watched the woman behind the counter fill the pastries with cream filling from a hose hanging from the ceiling.  It tasted incredible!  If you ever get a chance to eat fresh cannoli, DO IT.  Life is just too short not to.

Alan pointed out certain buildings while we walked around Center City.  The sidewalks were so well lit I could see better after dark than during the day.  I was happy to watch the last glow of orange, red, and purple light of the sunset contrasted against the tall dark buildings on both sides of a street.  They were the same colors I’ve seen in sunsets here, but in an urban landscape.  Whenever I get a chance to see stuff like that without having to strain, I savor it.

That concludes Part 1 of my Philly trip.  Next: A live zydeco and blues show, eggplant fries, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and an authentic Philly Cheese Steak sandwich.