An American was being interviewed by an Englishman on BBC radio. It was in the autumn of the year and the Yank asked the Brit if the English had a Thanksgiving Day like as the Americans. The interviewer replied that they did, however, theirs was not in November, but a few months earlier in September. When the man from the U.S. inquired as to why this was, he got the following response, “Because that’s the month when you chaps left!” Now, when was the first Thanksgiving? The Americans say it all began with the Pilgrims in Plymouth in 1621 (when they gave thanks for the initial food harvest in their new homeland). The Canadians beg to differ. They say it all began 43 years earlier in 1578 with explorer Martin Frobisher in Newfoundland (when he gave thanks for his safe arrival from England). But the truth is, both of these Europeans were doing what they had been taught to do back home on their own soil – that is, you called for a day of feasting or you called for a day of fasting based upon the particular event. (And so a Day of Fasting had been declared in England on account of a plague in 1606, a drought in 1611, and a flood in 1613. And a Day of Feasting has been declared in England following the victory over the Spanish Armada in 1588, the failure of the Gunpowder Plot in 1606, and the recovery of Queen Anne in 1705.) But today in North America, each country has changed it to one official scheduled day of thanksgiving.
The bottom line? I like the old system better, because as a Christian I’ve a lot more to celebrate than once a year!
‘Tis the night before Thanksgiving and all through our house, no turkey is baking; I feel like a louse, for I am all nestled, so snug in my bed; I’m not gettin’ up and I’m not bakin’ bread.
No pies in my oven, no cranberry sauce, cuz I give the orders, and I am the boss. When out in the kitchen, there arose such a clatter, I almost got up to see what was the matter.
As I drew in my head and was tossing around, to the bed came my husband, he grimaced, he frowned. And laying his finger aside of his nose, he scared me to death and I thought, “Here he goes!”
He spoke not a word as he threw back my quilt, and the look that he gave was intended to wilt. So up to the ceiling my pillows he threw, I knew I had had it, his face had turned blue.
“You prancer, you dodger, you’re lazy, you vixen, out yonder in kitchen, Thanksgiving you’re fixin.” But he heard me explain, with my face in a pout: “I’m just plain too tired and we’re eating out!”