Elmore’s Department Store was one of the three more enjoyable places for a young child to visit in my small, Southern, home town. Elmore’s had the finest selection of Matchbox cars and baseball cards available. And while Elmore’s was likely not much bigger than a closet in comparison to today’s superstores, for a youngster with a couple of dollars in his pocket, it was a shopping nirvana.
My dad took me there one Saturday afternoon and I apparently wandered away. While searching for those magical Matchboxes my three feet tall frame got lost in the clothing department, dwarfed as I was, by the towering racks of dress shirts and blue jeans.
I called for my father, “Daddy! Daddy!” Nothing. On the verge of panic I changed tactics, and started calling my father by name: “Roy! Roy!” He showed up within seconds.
In the immediate days to come, millions of Americans will gather around bountiful tables for another annual feast of gratitude. We will gorge on turkey (about 50 million of the birds) and cranberry sauce (80 million pounds or so of the little red berries). We will cram ourselves with stuffing and pumpkin pie.
Somewhere during the day, maybe a prayer will be offered; a nice little invocation. To God or the gods. Generically. An obligatory ritual that is little more than a tip stuffed quickly into the pocket of the nameless, faceless, cosmic Concierge who helped set our Thanksgiving feast.
But for many (and I hope for more of us rather than less), the prayer prayed over the November turkey will be offered in the spirit of Abraham Lincoln who first instituted this national holiday. The Great Emancipator declared, “I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, to set apart a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father.”