(My stock portfolio doth
not, but read on.)
With
forecasts of economic doom and gloom surrounding us, and a very
ugly political season finally behind us, Thanksgiving comes none too
soon. I don't know about you, but I am more than ready to take a
"blessings break" and ponder that which is GOOD in my life.
And there is
much that is good. I am safe, I am healthy, I am happy, I am
loved...I have friends who mean the world to me, children who make me
proud, and xx. Ironically, not one of those things carries a dollar
value. Whether the Dow Jones average is off the charts or dead in the
water, the essence of my life is the same.
Isn't that true for you as well? Oh, of course, we're all
happier when there's money in the bank and the bills are paid, but do
your friends love you any less if you wear Levis instead of Donna
Karan? (If they do, I suggest you keep the Levis and change your
friends!) Is it truly that great a sacrifice to
start packing lunches instead of eating out? Inconvenient, yes; life
shattering, hardly.
Face
it: we're all a bit spoiled, folks. We're used to living large and
not really thinking about tomorrow. We boomers have been
raised with a legacy of largesse, largely because
our parents knew deprivation first hand. Having lived through the Great
Depression, with its rations and restrictions and shortages, our
parents worked diligently to make sure we lacked for nothing. Boomers
are used to having everything bigger, better, sooner, swankier, and in
endless supply. We never imagined the gravy train would have a
caboose--much less run out of steam!
But
here we are, showing up at the Thanksgiving table with our
portfolios depleted, our credit lines cut off, our IRAs dying of
malnutrition, and our turkey dinner a lot more expensive than last
year. There will be those who declare there's nothing to be thankful
for, but I hope you aren't one of them. I hope you will sit down in
some lovely spot, in the days to come, and write out a long,
long list of all that is good in your life...the people who warm your
heart, the moments that make you laugh, the
intangible "treasures" whose value far exceeds
anything sitting in a bank. The latter is subject to depreciation; the
former is priceless.
I
leave you with this wonderful poem written by
James Whitcomb Riley that details (in the colorful central
Indiana dialect for which he was famous) all that makes this time of
year special. It's one of the first poems I remember hearing and I
think it still describes fall better than anything else I've ever read!
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
When the frost is on the punkin and
the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the
gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin'; of the
guineys and the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's
hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O it's then the times
a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to
greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the
house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the
frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
They's somethin kindo' harty-like
about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the
coolin' fall is here -
Of course we miss the flowers, and the
blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and
buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the
landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny monring of
the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the
colorin' to mock -
When the frost is on the punkin and
fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the
raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The
stubble in the furries - kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A
preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The
strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The
hosses in theyr stalls below - the clover overhead! -
O, it
sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the
frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and
the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in
red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your
wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter,
and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell
it - but if sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin'
boardin', and they'd call around on me -
I'd want to
'commodate 'em - all the whole-indurin' flock -
When the
frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
May your blessings
continue to be abundant,
