Thanksgiving

Nurses. I’m grateful for nurses, foremostly. At some point in your life, no matter who you are, or how much money you make, you will have an intimate healthcare experience with a nurse.

A nurse might save your life. They might administer a barium enema. Either way, you will feel their warm hands on your body. And you will be grateful.

But the real question is why. Why do nurses do what they do? Every single day they do it. The pay isn’t THAT good. The schooling is brutal. The clinicals are medieval torture. But nurses choose to be nurses. And most can’t imagine themselves doing anything else.

And teachers. I am also thankful for teachers. College. High school. Grade school. Kindergarten. The pay is crap. But the hallways of heaven will be lined with educators.

Dogs. I’m thankful for dogs. Not just my dogs, but your dogs, too. At this stage of my life, dogs are my closest and most trusted allies. My closest friends have always had flea problems.

I am thankful for my human friends, too. Close friends are rare. In fact, they are almost mythical. In your lifetime you have a better chance of finding Bigfoot than you do a best friend. If you have three or four REALLY good friends you are wealthy. If you have more than that you are delusional.

I am grateful for beer. I grew up fundamentalist. In my youth, being in possession of a six-pack was right up there with a conviction for distributing snuff films. But I love beer. Always will.

Also, cheese.

Kids. I am grateful for children. Whenever you start to think our world is going straight to hell, start paying attention to kids. Because they aren’t.

Black coffee, made by someone other than me.

Waffle House hashbrowns at two in the morning.

Ferns that hang on porches.

Books. Especially randomly found books, from obscure places like thrift stores, yard sales, or motel lobbies. The kind of books that surprise you, and you stay up all night reading them.

Salted peanuts. Werther’s Originals. Chili Cheese Fritos. The Weather Channel. The Andy Griffith Show. F-150s. Christmas lights. Cat ladies. Good Samaritans. Cops.

Let’s see, what else.

I am thankful for second chances. I don’t know how, or why second chances happen. But they do happen. For everyone. All shapes, denominations, creeds, and persuasions. My life has been built on second chances.

I have been writing this column for a decade now. I can’t believe I’ve been writing you for so long. But here we are.

I wasn’t supposed to be a writer.

I was a younger man. I was involved in a car accident. A guy hit me from behind, traveling 88 mph. He had fallen asleep at the wheel. My truck flipped. It was Thanksgiving Day weekend.

One minor spinal surgery later, there I was lying in a hospital bed. The catheter hurt like a son of a gun. The painkillers made me seasick. But I was alive. I was banged up, but I was healthy.

What was going to become of my life now? What would I do? I sure as heck wasn’t going back to business as usual.

My nurse gave me a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes. She was an older woman. She touched my face and said, “Everyone gets a second chance, sweetie. This is yours.” Her name was Grace.

Coincidence. I think not.

Happy Thanksgiving.