'It’s Mainly Because of Thanksgiving'

For many years the theme of our Thanksgiving Day has been Ben Jonson’s “Inviting a Friend to Supper,” which begins: 

“Tonight, grave sir, both my poore house, and I

Doe equally desire your companie:

Not that we thinke us worthy such a guest,

But that your worth will dignifie our feast . . .”

 

In earlier years, the menu would be Américain Classique: roast turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn casserole, dinner rolls, etc. – an embarrassingly bountiful spread. Guests would include family, neighbors and the unexpected. This year the fare will be more modest, probably salmon, rice and broccoli. No, it’s not poverty or some misguided concession to health. My middle son arrived Wednesday evening from Fort Meade. He’s a vegetarian and a Marine, and we’ll be dining alone. My wife doesn’t return to Houston from Chile until Friday. Jonson’s poem is an invitation, a welcome to my readers: Come, join us, help yourself, enjoy the feast. He concludes the poem with these words:

 

“No simple word

That shall be utter’d at our mirthfull board

Shall make us sad next morning: or affright

The libertie, that wee’ll enjoy to-night.”

 

Of all Thanksgiving poems, my favorite is Anthony Hecht’s “The Transparent Man” (The Transparent Man, 1990), a dramatic monologue spoken by a thirty-year-old woman hospitalized with leukemia. Each year, when I reread it, I think: I wish I could have known her, a fictional character. She recognizes the impact her fatal illness has on others and doesn’t wish to burden them.

 

“. . . I feel

A little conspicuous and in the way.

It’s mainly because of Thanksgiving. All these mothers

And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully

And feel they should break up their box of chocolates

For a donation, or hand me a chunk of fruitcake.

What they don’t understand and never guess

Is that it’s better for me without a family;

It’s a great blessing. Though I mean no harm.”

 

“Donation” gently, politely camouflages scorn, and that last sentence is heartbreaking. She thinks of the difficulty her illness causes her father, who doesn’t visit. Is she making excuses for him? Hecht leaves it unresolved. His nameless speaker, in what might be mistaken for self-pity, redefines gratitude:

 

“I care about fewer things; I’m more selective.

It’s got so I can’t even bring myself

To read through any of your books these days.

It’s partly weariness, and partly the fact

That I seem not to care much about the endings,

How things work out, or whether they even do.”