It was a bit of an awakening this year, and one filled with legitimate thanks. Last year’s spirit had a tinge of resentment to the enforced seclusion and mandate talk during the pandemic. Masks were still a big deal. The schools were in an uproar, and some of the response to the public health emergency rule was beginning to rise. We succumbed to the drive get get the Moderna vaccine as serious consideration was being given to the idea of internal vaccine passports. We were thankful, of course. We did not have Covid issues in the families from our farm colony. We were healthy. We were thankful.

The context was important. It was a remarkable year by any account, and one for which everyone at Refuge Farm was justly thankful. In this one, we shared something with the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people who kicked off this holiday four centuries ago, joining the English tradition of the fall harvest with that of the indigenous people, without whose help the Pilgrim settlement might have perished. The Wampanoag name means “easterners,” in their tongue, and the Pilgrims might have thought of themselves as “westerners.”

At one point the indigenous population among five groups in Rhode Island and Massachusetts numbered 12,000, overwhelmingly outnumbering the English. You know some of them by name today: the famous chiefs Squanto, Samoset, Metacomet, and Massasoit. They lived their times on their terms, unlike those of us today who consider our history to be part of a destruction that is a desired end state.

There was reason to remember them on this unusual Thanksgiving. Last year there was enough noise about the virus that we had not noticed the bile and venom directed at people who lived four centuries ago, nor would I think any of the Pilgrims would recognize the history that is currently being attributed to them. I can’t speak for them any more than their accusers. So there is that new part of the holiday, and maybe that is part of why this edition of a holiday declared by George Washington, a man who surveyed the property in what is now downtown Culpeper. He is under attack as well. All of some remarkable and courageous people are now blamed for some sort of genocide. So, we could have puffed in indignation about the theft and vandalism of our history.

Instead, we chose to snort and dismiss it because we have the rare privilege to have a direct bond with the soil on which we live. The gobbling donor of the entree passed away last Sunday, farm-born and a regular part-time participant in farm life. The Russians work hard on their land. The venison morsels for the stuffing came from their fields, as did greens, honey, and delightful cranberry-topped cheesecake came from the life they plant and help manage.

Grace was determined to make this one memorable, and she succeeded. She is famed for her mashed potatoes, and brought her formidable culinary skills to bear on the Green Bean casserole, the delightful stuffing, sautéed mushrooms. I did a modest bacon braid for the turkey breast, and the bounty she prepared was laid out next to a dining table that had not been set with silver, tablecloth good glasses and proper silverware since it arrived at the farm. It looked considerably better than as a computer table rarely used and out of sorts with the kitchen area.

So we were thankful for that. We thanked our lucky stars we were maskless and able to laugh at the madness of the world around us. And then we dined with lavish satisfaction. I whispered to Grace that the turkey breast was the finest I have tasted in several decades of holiday celebration. We enjoyed the company, and we particularly were thankful for friends on whom you know you can count. We added a Sunday social to include others on our lane, a small community for which we are very thankful.

Accordingly, I don’t know what your neighborhood was like for this one, but we decided to treat it as we normally do. A day to give thanks, honor the harvest and the labor it took to bring it together, partly from the soil beneath our green and verdant landscape. It was one for the books, and contained within serving dishes was the clear sense that we are going to go on, and we are going to give thanks when this season comes again. Thankful for the bounty from our land, our birds, our deer and vegetables. And above all, for love and good friends.

Thanksgiving 2021.

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com