George Bernard Shaw once offered a toothy observation about Christianity. He said it was a great religion. Maybe someone should try practicing it someday. For me? Ditto with Thanksgiving. It deserves being set into motion with more regularity than a hurried and mumbled prayer every last Thursday of November.

I can’t recall two Thanksgivings remotely the same. I was 7 when my folks divorced. In second grade, I went with my dad. We moved from Chatsworth to Palo Alto and he got himself a job on the 3-to-midnight swing shift and had to work that Thanksgiving. Dear, dear Dad apologized for leaving me to my own devices on that particular Thursday in 1957, but, he had to work and Thanksgivings weren’t remotely anything special prior. It brings a smile, remembering a littler version of me, sitting in a cruller emporium, enjoying coffee and a doughnut. Alone, I recall getting strange looks. The things one remembers. That entire meal ended up costing me 35 cents. Coffee and a doughnut today? Runs closer to five bucks and that’s without the gravy.

I’ve had Thanksgivings running the spectrum from splendiferous to Twilight Zone weird, from being the only one at a table to part of a joyous battalion. It was decades ago and my niece-like substance, Stefanie, sat across from me. There were easily 40 people at that meal. A beautiful day, we jerry-rigged tables that stretched like an aircraft carrier, and Stef, 10 then, asked if I could pass the salt.

“And what do we say?” I asked, sing-songy.

Stefanie squinted. “Pass the salt, damn you …”

“You are........

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