A cold rain fell all last night and all of today. A little colder and it would be snow, but the temperature is 38°F. The windows are fogged and streaked with condensation. Forecasters say the rain may turn to snow tonight and last until daylight tomorrow morning.
The gray sky’s feeble light is obscured by awnings, leaving the room dim and gloomy, but that doesn’t bother me. A sheet of clear plastic taped over the window air-conditioner crackles as wayward breezes outside push and pull on it, making the plastic sheet puff out and then retreat back, as if the a/c unit was a breathing thing.
I have the thermostat turned down so that the boiler doesn’t run. Today, I get my heat from a kerosene stove. It sits silently nearby, casting warmth and 
a comforting glow into the gloom. It’s the next best thing to having a fire in a fireplace. Heat and firelight; ancient things but still very comforting on a cold day or a cold night. To our primitive ancestors, a fire could mean survival. Maybe that’s why it still feels so comforting to us. It’s wired into our brains now: fire means you won’t freeze to death, fire means the big cats won’t eat you tonight. Once in a while the stove gurgles as a bubble of air is pulled into its fuel tank. It does that now, as I type these words.
A Linda Ronstadt CD is playing. (Remember CDs? Before iTunes, before Spotify, there was a time when you could hold music in your hand.) This CD is one I bought in the ‘70s called Living In The USA. It has some very pretty melodies and some toe-tappers, too: Back in the USA (Chuck Berry), Alison (Elvis Costello), White Rhythm and Blues (J. D. Souther), and the tune that is playing right now – Mohammed’s Radio (Warren Zefron). (Don’t ask what the lyrics mean; Mohammed’s Radio means something different to every person who hears it.)
The song ends and I hear a train whistle blow. It’s distant, maybe a mile or two away. Just barely, I hear the rumble of steel wheels on steel track. Then another series of whistles and it’s gone. Silence.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, an American holiday to celebrate American obesity by stuffing our faces with turkey and ham and sweet potatoes and green beans and cranberry sauce and biscuits and pumpkin pie and … oh, you get the idea. I think too often, we forget about the reasons we should be thankful. It’s too easy to focus our attention on things that are less than ideal, while everyday blessings, like just having clean water to drink, are taken entirely too much for granted. I have food in the fridge, for which I am thankful. I have clean, running water at the turn of a tap, for which I am thankful. I haven’t decided if I will eat anything at all tomorrow. Maybe I’ll spend a day meditating on all those things for which I’m thankful.
And I hope you enjoy your Thanksgiving, my friends.
