Forget, Hell!

I'm sure glad I have that History degree. A solid grasp of history and knowledge of the Zodiac can sure help explain a lot of everyday life's tribulations. For example, I'm reminded of the great War Between the States as our annual Thanksgiving skirmish unfolds.

Just after Halloween every year I literally feel the pall cast over the fun as we turn toward Thanksgiving. And like the portent of John Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry, I can hear the distant rumble of cannon and the rippling of musketry along the picket lines: What are we going to do for Thanksgiving?

For starters, I have already given up on Thanksgiving. So Norman Rockwell were the feasts of my youth that to even try to recapture them invites domestic disaster. But like a dreamy abolitionist, I tried this year anyway. How about a cozy afternoon with our best friends? They would love to escape the clutches of their families as well, I'm sure of it. And so I was. I made up a menu - and even allowed cornbread stuffing to pass the threshold of my kitchen. We were going to watch the parades. Play football out on the street. Watch movies. Play board games. I and The Queen were even going to cook the whole dinner ourselves. This was all something new. If this thing went off alright, it could become the new tradition - we might even look forward to Thanksgiving next year (picture a tall, thin depressive guy with bad acne, a beard and a very tall hat).

A student of history knows that about this time the old line plantation families in the South were not going to let this happen. When the news hit Charleston about a week ago, it was made clear: if that tall sad sack gets elected there's going to be trouble. The politics began in ernest. At first shock was displayed that we would even want to do anything different. Then the smoky room stuff started. Attempts were made to use the children as leverage; a well-timed call from a sibling; a seemingly unrelated letter came with the salutation, "We will miss you at Thanksgiving."

A poll was taken. None of us wanted to have dinner with the extended family. I'm not going to run down the laundry list of reasons why, but they are sufficient to motivate anyone to look for alternatives. My declarative was, "Why would I want to go there?" But we have a Copperhead in our home and a Libra at that. For days, YHWH wrung her hands and bore the thousand-yard stare. She saw both sides of both sides, but in the end, like Robert E Lee ( "I have not been able to make up my mind to raise my hand against my relatives"), she couldn't shake the bonds of tradition.

It's all about the stuffing. In Oklahoma, I-44 bisects the state diagonally. If you hail from south of I-44, you're likely a Reb and you eat cornbread dressing; north of I-44, you're likely a Yankee and you eat stuffing made from bread crusts. If you're from OKC or Tulsa, you're likely to find both on offer. And there you have it. YHWH, with an honest to goodness Yankee pedigree (she actually descends from an in-law of Jonathan Edwards) and wife of a good Nickajack man (my ancestor stole over the Virginia border to fight for East Tennessee loyalists), supports the cause of her Reb stepfamily and their cornbread dressing.

I know you've pensively read this far with bated breath, knowing full well this analogous account leads to secession. Nothing so dramatic as that happens. In this scenario, there is no Gettysburg Address. We skip right to act III, scene 2 of Our American Cousin.