I just got back from a happy family Thanksgiving dinner, so my very full stomach and wine-saturated mind demand I keep this post brief, but there is a matter Thanksgiving-related I'd like to share with you.
We have a tradition in my family: apple-picking. Every Thanksgiving we head out of the city to the orchard and pick a big bag of apples fresh off the trees. This year was no exception, and we had a beautiful day for it.
As we were picking, though, one of my sisters looked up at a tree resplendent with apples and said, "Ever since I read Angela's Ashes, every time we come apple-picking I think of that scene where the boys go truant for the day and break into the apple orchard. They gorge on fruit and at the end of the scene the character says 'I wish we could feast like this every day.' I think about that and I feel so guilty because they had nothing. They had nothing."
And for a while, we were all quiet. We all seemed to look down ashamedly at our feet, but there were apples there too. I don't know about the rest of my family, but my next bite of golden delicious took me to heaven and hell and all points in between.
Canada just got hotter!