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{1i1sa‘o I’ i

found myself thinking of
Thanksgiving as I made my
way to a peace vigil last night.

These vigils are held every
Friday evening during what pass-
es for rush hour in this small
town on the coast ofthe Pacific
Ocean. 1 am drawn to such gath-
erings like families are to a
Thanksgiving dinner. I could no
more ignore at least an occasional
peace vigil, civil rights demon-
stration, take back the night
march or gay pride parade than I
could forget to vote in an elec-
tion. These are not acts of civil
disobedience for me, but of civic
duty. I am grateful that democra-
cy is still alive.

I passed a grocery store
~ pumpkins eight cents a pound.
Thanksgiving must be near. I
have so much to be thankful for
this year: a warm, mostly dry
home for the rainy season, a
break from watering the garden, a
case of fresh apples, a basket of
ripe tomatoes, both sauced and
frozen for the winter months.

Growing up in an
America energized by victory in
the 1940s, lulled by a prosperous
security in the 1950s, faced by
the temptation to make smugness
a national virtue in the early
1960s, somehow a whole genera-
tion of activists sprang from this
somnolent nation. The children of
the children of immigrants, for
the most part, we were raised on
the horror of Hitler and the equal
horror of the A-bomb. What else
could many of us become but
anti-nuclear weapons, then peace

— activists, when we were regularly

herded into school hallways to
practice for air raids? We were
scared.

As no bomb fell on P.S.
20, I find myself preparing for
Thanksgiving Day forty-odd
years later. I watch for notices
that free-range turkeys can be
ordered at the co-op, wait to see
the price of organic cranberries,
remind friends.that Thanksgiving
dinner is at my placethis year.
The Innkeepers will bring their
secret-recipe mashed potatoes,
the librarian her green bean dish.
The poet will surprise us and the
faraway friends will bring a pie.
The southern lady will make ice
cream. Will the cranberry relish
be coming this year? Who wants
to make stuffin’? Do I have
enough cinnamon sticks for the
cider?

I’ll be grateful if, by
Thanksgiving, we haven’t invad-
ed Iraq. At the same time I’m
thankful that we’re doing what
we can to defend ourselves. Is
this war or is it peace and if it’s
not war can I stomach such a
defensive peace in a world boil-
ing over with angers? There’s
been a sniper loose in the coun-
try. What’s to stop our enemies

Pacific Thanksgiving

 

from sending a dozen, thousands
like him to launch a guerilla
attack in every town?

When Thanksgiving Day
arrives each year my first grati-
tude has nothing to do with world
peace or turmoil. I’m simply
grateful we’re all women and it
won’t matter that I have no T.V.
reception for the football games.
My second gratitude is that there
are always instructions on the
box of turkey-roasting bags to get
me started. The third, that the
Innkeepers are always ready with
calm advice when I call to wail
that the turkey will be over-,
under- or un-done: This is as
much turmoil as I can handle.

On the street comer,
with my NO WAR sign, I’m

I’ll be
grateful if,

 
    

always arrives in a whirl. First
the kitchen steams up, then "I’ll
ready my mother’s stainless sil-
verware and my collection of
19505 tablecloths for the arrival
ofthe card tables that will "sup-
plement my rusty-legged relic.
Finally we’ll all be seated, the ice
cream machine churning out
back, and someone will yell,
“Grace!” and someone else will
say, “Who’s Grace?” and I’ll get
wet-eyed and embarrass myself
by telling them how grateful I am
for friends.

Last year we had a
moment of silence for loss and
peace. This year in the wake of
bombs exploding all over the
world, and of a sharpshooter
killing civilians in Home Depot
parking lots, our silence will be a
year’s more earnest. And the next
day, the Friday after the great
American feast, we’ll meet at the
center of town to hold aloft peace
signs and to hope for signs of real
peace. V

© 2002 by Lee Lynch

Lee Lynch is the author of eleven
books iricluding The

by Thanksgiving,

we haven't
invaded Iraq.
At the

same time
I’m thankful
that

we’re doing
what we can

to defend ourselves.

grateful that I can voice my opin-
ion, surprised and gratified at all
the horns honking in support. But
what is this peace l‘m demand-
ing? How else can we protect
ourselves but with uniforms and
weapons? In college my war
protest meant that I would not
tolerate the slaughter of my
brother or of my friends Gene or
Donald or Walter. What good
does my sign do now to protect
any of us from slaughter by ter-
rorists who have no qualms about
seeing us disintegrate in flying
firebombs? I
Thanksgiving Day

Swashbuckler and the Morton
River Valley Trilogy. She lives on .
the Oregon Coast and comes
from a New England family.