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For thousands of Americans, this Thanksgiving will be a bittersweet day. Men, women and children who lost loved ones on Sept. 11, people who have loved ones fighting the war in Afghanistan, brave souls who have put their lives on the line to exterminate an unspeakable evil.
Like the patriotic, selfless men and women at the Niagara Falls Air Reserve Station. On Civvy Street, they are people like you and me -- businessmen, bankers, teachers, students, single moms -- who devote their weekends and days off to serving their country, mostly in training and flying mercy missions to needy countries.
But in the past weeks, the missions have become more menacing than merciful. Air Force Reservists with the 914th Airlift Wing, National Guardsmen with the 107th Air Refueling Wing and soldiers with the 865th Combat Support Hospital have been called to active duty, both defending the home front and serving in the battle zones.
They were asked to put their lives on the line and they answered the call. These fine folks won't be spending Thanksgiving with their families. They could be away for up to two years, base commanders have said. On Thanksgiving I will drink to their courage and pray for their safety.
And why have they been placed in harm's way? Because of a loathsome little cockroach who devises diabolical ways to slaughter innocent Americans and then hides like a coward in the caves of Afghanistan.
That makes me see red. We each have ways of exacting symbolic revenge, and as I shove my Thanksgiving turkey into the oven, I'm sorely tempted to call it Osama and watch it burn at an unbearable temperature. Like he did to innocent people going about their business in the World Trade Center.
But that would be an insult to the time-honored turkey, that symbol of freedom and a good life in America that those turkeys like the Taliban tried to destroy.
To hell with them.
They will not stop me from enjoying my favorite holiday that doesn't involve gifts. Good food, phone greetings from family and friends, a day off for even struggling freelance writers, and please, Sweet Lord, not another blizzard.
Thanksgiving means a chance to see my college roommate who visits her brother in Western New York during the holidays. This allows us to review our past year of living and recall with laughter the innocent pleasures -- trust me -- of two strictly raised Irish Catholic girls let loose on the sprawling campus of Michigan State University. Our lives have diverged in major ways, but we share memories that I'll never have with another person.
And our friendship has survived more years than I care to admit, though we live a thousand miles apart and sometimes have to confine our contact to rare phone calls. But with glasses of champagne in our hands -- our Thanksgiving tradition -- the years roll away. We'll reminisce about my first real boyfriend (who dumped me, the creep), her ex-husband (a creep I warned her not to marry), and all the other sorrows and joys that bind us in friendship. I count myself lucky that I've kept such a good friend.
And thank God for it.
Thanksgiving also means cooking a meal that my finicky dinner companion will not unduly criticize. I can cook a turkey, as admittedly can anyone armed with a meat thermometer and access to the Butterball hotline. I long ago refined my paternal grandmother's stuffing (I leave out the sausage), and my candied sweet potatoes are the only thing my dad says I do better than his mama. (The secret is walnuts and a touch of honey.) My own little turkey will buy a good bottle of wine, a lovely respite from the cheap plonk I usually guzzle, play Handel's "Messiah" to get in the mood for Christmas, and we will share our own good memories, while hoping to share some more.
And I thank God for that.
The next day, I will unpack the Christmas decorations, a chore that cheers me despite the fact that I know the fairy lights I bought last year will refuse to work this year. Of course, my Christmas tree is a 4-foot-high plastic replica of a blue spruce, and it wobbles. The latter is the result of my cat Chuckie's fascination with this once-a-year addition to the living room. She used to knock it down at least once each holiday season in her striving to get at some bauble at the very top.
The tree will be adorned with the tiny decorations I've collected during my marriage, and I'll remember with fondness why an angel is missing a wing and why Santa has only one foot: Chuckie in a playful mood. I do miss that cat. She died this spring at the sweet old age of 22. I thank God I had her that long.
I guess I see red most every day of my life over one thing or another. I'm an equal opportunity bitch. And I can hold a grudge that often has to be carbon dated it's so ancient. My life did not turn out as I envisioned, but I've never had to endure the grief, the rage and the hopelessness of losing a person so very dear that living another day without them becomes too painful to contemplate.
This week if we don't necessarily want to thank God, we should at least be thankful for living in a country that, while imperfect, offers us choices, opportunities, and most of all, freedom -- that quality of life that riles bin Laden and his Taliban protectors so much. On Sept. 11, they executed an act of cowardly genocide that blew Thanksgiving all to hell for thousands of Americans.
I am not a nice person and most likely will go straight to the ninth circle of hell when I turn up my toes. But I promise, dear readers, when I get there I will find bin Laden, and I assure you I'll inflict on him an eternity of relentless revenge. I'll harangue him with nonstop accounts of America's greatness, courage and freedom. For his entertainment agony, I'll sing and dance naked before his propped-open eyes. And if he still has a crotch, he will feel the force of my vicious knee. Lucifer will be proud.
Meanwhile, on Thanksgiving, think about, give thanks, and if the spirit moves you, pray for all the people we lost that hellish day. And for those we have already lost and will continue to lose in a long, sickening war we didn't start and didn't deserve.
Happy Thanksgiving.