What I’m thankful for

By Editor | November 22, 2024 |

Sean of the South

Today, schoolkids across the nation will sit at desks, forced to write at knifepoint the same essay we all wrote each November: “What I’m Thankful For.”

Every student approaches this essay differently. Some, primarily front-row students, draft an itemized list wherein items one through 49 explicitly thank the teacher for being so incredibly, stupendously, unmitigatedly awesome that she is finally forced to wipe the brown stains from these students’ noses.

Meantime, kids in the back rows pass around M.A.D. magazines, retelling the timeless joke about the pig with the wooden leg, a joke which has brought me, personally, more comfort than any major religion.

Nevertheless, we wrote our lists each year. I never received an A-grade on my essays. But to this day, I have a stunning collection of magazines which bear the face of Alfred E. Neuman on the cover.

So, in no particular order, here is my list:

“The Andy Griffith Show.” I grew up in a tragic, fatherless home. I look back now and realize I was probably clinically depressed. But each afternoon at five, the clouds parted and a local channel ran back-to-back reruns of Andy. Andy Griffith was my pretend dad. I’m grateful for that.

I am thankful for dogs. On any given day, I receive more tangible love from dogs than I could get, say, attending Woodstock.

I am thankful for music. Old music. The kind that forms a living scrapbook of our ancestors. “Amazing Grace.” “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” “Hard Times.” I am thankful for my old fiddle. My piano. And, God help me, even my banjo. I am not thankful for the accordion.

I am thankful for babies. All infants. Happy, plump, fat, pink newborns who laugh so hard that semi-solids come out both ends.

My wife and I were not able to have children. This has mostly been okay with me. After all, I didn’t have an example of a father. I lived the life of a bar musician since age 14, playing in stuffy rooms where you could actually see the air.

The older I get, the more I wonder what a little redheaded girl would have looked like. This child might have had my wife’s brains, my wife’s looks, and I could have taught her how to hate the accordion.

I’m thankful for beer. The smell of cinnamon. Chili Cheese Fritos. Largemouth bass which, I have been told by reliable sources, actually do exist.

For my friend Becca. For my front porch. Feral cats. The sound of rain. For Pluto TV, a streaming service which has a 24-hour Andy Griffith Channel. Also, a James Bond channel, as well as “Little House on the Prairie” and “Love Boat” channels. No “Charlie’s Angels” channel yet. But nobody’s perfect.

I am thankful for my wife, who made me into me. Fate should have made her a gentleman’s wife. Instead, Fate gave her a dork. But she made the best of him.

Lastly, but not leastly, I am thankful for You, God.

I know it seems redundant, thanking God for being God. But how can one be grateful for true art without also being grateful for the Artist?

I appreciate what you made, God. The big and little stuff. I cannot tell you what a privilege it’s been, just having a shot at being alive – for however long my life lasts.

Oftentimes, religious people will write to me, hellbent on telling me how I don’t know you, or how there is a list of criteria to meet, or how I have to do A, B and C before I can get to heaven. When the truth is, I don’t really need to go to heaven, God. I’m happy here. Just being right here, with all your love floating around me. If this is all you give me, I’ll be okay.

These religious people don’t know what you and I have going on, God. They don’t know how you helped a traumatized kid, the survivor of suicide and poverty of spirit, find himself. These people just don’t know how good we are together.

So anyway, God, I know You’re busy, but please give me an A for this essay.

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