An American Thanksgiving story

My St. Joseph Church Thanksgiving dinner mates included: a poor, Native American couple who had just driven 12 hours from Ontario, Canada, to see their kids and who live on a reservation being bought-out by Texas oil magnates; a couple in their 90s — a feisty Betty dressed to the “T” with lipstick, a low-cut top, colorful flower print dress and hair done-up with her husband Bill, a World War II veteran wearing a neatly pressed shirt, slightly bent-over with a wheelchair holding a small U.S. flag stapled to a thin stick in his left hand and held with a full five-finger squeeze. Bill is in the mid to late stages of dementia with a glazed, “blue-eye” stare and some facial expressions when Betty would talk and explain stuff while gabbing away.

Betty hand-fed Bill while he gripped a fork in his right hand like a garden tool so he could participate by looking the part, if you will. Then, next to Betty and Bill was a person who experienced homelessness with long disheveled hair and dressed in a full-length overcoat and scarf that he kept on for the entire meal. He was the most polite and courteous diner at table. There was a tall, obese granddad with Jacoby, his 9-year-old adopted grandson. Grandfather had just lost his mother, wife and daughter since March of this year. He adopted Jacoby, a fidgety young man who, during desert, was slipped a $20 bill by Betty for Christmas — she had just met him. The grandfather whispered “go ahead, put it in your pocket!”

At one point, Bill, encouraged by Betty, handed his small U.S. flag to Jacoby.

The details of the lives of my diverse tablemates held me captive as they casually and matter-of-factly engaged in conversation about their lives.

I interjected some humor and had the table laughing, but pivoted away at one point trying to hide my face and was consoled by a church-worker who spotted me bent over. She put her arm around my shoulders, cloaking me in a protective way.

“It’ll be alright,” she said.

She didn’t know why I was weeping, she just knew to console. Perfect.

Listening to Jewel’s “Silent Night” as I finish this entry I thank God for the love we have and love each other. Peace.

Paul Maguire splits time living in Moorhead, Minn., and Palmer.