Fond memories of many childhood Thanksgivings attending the Georgia Tech-Georgia Freshman football game for the benefit of Scottish Rite Hospital.
Also, Furman Bisher's annual Thanksgiving Day columns of gratitude. Here is his very last one from exactly 5 years ago:
First published: November 24, 2011
Well, we're now into our third season of what is comically referred to as "retirement" --- and I can tell you this:
There's nothing retiring about it.
The phone still has to be answered. The garbage has to be taken out. Norman (that's the cat) has to be fed --- then let out --- then let back in. The bird feeder has to be refilled. The fish pond has to be cleaned out. The newspapers have to be taken to the recycling bin. The deer --- danged little wretches --- have to be chased out of the flower garden. And I could go on and on, but you've heard enough. Oh, I forgot, the leaves have to be raked --- and Lord knows, do we have leaves!
So, there you are. Doesn't sound like a guy who has a lot to be thankful for, right? It's not the usual sort of thing you might find included among the joys of living, but with tongue firmly planted in cheek, let me see if I can't assure you that there are some things out there to be thankful for:
One of those spooky mornings when the fog hangs low over the marsh.
When I drive into the parking lot, and there's still one space left --- especially this time of year.
When the hot-water heater performs its duty --- any time this time of the year.
The morning sound of a crowing rooster (never understood what they're crowing about).
When my bank account balances.
For the doctor who can make me feel better, especially if it's legal.
When it's time to "fall back, " as in those infernal time-zone switches. (Wasn't that just supposed to be for WWII days?)
When the noise in the middle of the night turns out to be the ice maker.
For my old 1948 Royal typewriter. (But where do you go for ribbons?)
That the martini wasn't a family drink at our house when I was growing up.
When I get to church on Sunday and see that the hymns we're singing are those I know the words to.
When Lynda comes back from the hairdresser and I can say, "I really like that" without lying.
When the voice on the phone is one of our grandkids . . . and they're "grand" in my life.
I don't know about you, but I'm up to my gizzard in so-called "bowl" games.
Not necessarily thankful, but you never see buttermilk on restaurant menus these days.
The sound of a lawn mower --- when somebody else is pushing it.
For the nine-inning pitcher --- oh, yeah!
When the bank says it was their mistake.
(And to all of you out there, may your holiday be rich in blessings and love for one another.
Happy Thanksgiving from our house to yours.)
