Thoughts Before Turkey Dinner

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Perhaps it might be premature, but I'd like to start the thanks giving now:

To professors who have canceled classes, so that the holiday's eve is a quiet night at home instead of a harrowing ordeal on a crowded bus, train or plane, thank you.

To kindly teaching fellows who will grade our hastily completely problem sets and papers with sympathy and understanding.

To roommates who keep us company as we pack through the night, wisely advising us to remove stacks of textbooks from our suitcases, lightening our physical and mental loads.

To whoever is in charge of the weather, thank you.

To mothers who have wept when their babies left for college, and who weep each time their babies return. To fathers who greet us with a gruff handshake, little siblings who meet us with incessant questions and pets that welcome us with a wet, sloppy kiss. Thank you.

To all the forgotten luxuries of home--from high-pressure showers to a working fireplace--and to all its forgotten necessities, like Mom's apple pie. To all the familiar nooks and crannies in our walls, the squeaky doors and creaky floors, the imperfections that make our homecoming perfect. To our parents for leaving our bedroom just the way we left it, thank you.

To all the hometown people who haven't forgotten our faces, from longtime buddies to childhood crushes. To our high school teachers who never change and our friends from Yale who never learn.

To the trees that so readily shed their leaves on our front lawns, so that those of us unwelcome in the kitchen have something to do with our idle hands on Thanksgiving morning.

To all our relatives who make the special effort to convene in one place for one day, from grandparents who pull our cheeks to aunts who can't stop chattering. To little cousins who gleefully scatter those leaves we just raked. Thank you.

To the Thanksgiving feast experience, the rapid succession from gnawing hunger to gastronomic fulfillment To those who prepared the piles of food that never end and those who roasted and basted that turkey with succulent perfection.

To the quiet moment of remembrance of those less fortunate than ourselves, of those who cannot afford such a luxurious feast and others who must settle for canned turkey from a soup kitchen.

To those who have sacrificed their Thanksgiving so that others can enjoy it, from the Harvard Dining Service workers who prepare a feast for stranded students to the harried nurses and doctors, police officers and fire fighters who only have the time for a quick cafeteria turkey dinner.

To the tens of thousands of servicemen and women stationed across the world, separated from their families, who allow the nation they serve to enjoy Thanksgiving Day in comfort and security. Thank you.

To the stillness that creeps into the house at day's end, when all the dishes are washed and all the leftovers are wrapped. To unfinished crossword puzzles and half-opened board games scattered around the living room, bathed by the warm glow of crackling fires and family members.

To quiet strolls at night, crunching through leaves under a clear autumn sky and gazing into Orion's starry belt. To solitary idleness that prompts somber reflection.

To these precious moments of tranquility before the flurry of work, classes and Christmas shopping takes over.

To everyone and everything that makes this holiday so powerfully poignant, thank you. Have yourself a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Richard S. Lee '01 is a social studies concentrator in Pforzheimer House. His column appears on alternate Wednesdays.