The World According to Chuck

(First published on November 21, 2001)

I love Thanksgiving. I always have, ever since I was a kid. It’s way better than Christmas. Once the presents are opened Christmas fades quickly, but turkey sandwiches can last a week or more if you’re careful.

Here in the Sigars household, Thanksgiving season usually starts the week before, officially begun when my wife says, “OHMYGOD, MY PARENTS WILL BE HERE IN TWO DAYS AND THERE’S MOLD GROWING ON THE COUCH!” And so we all pitch in, and while I love my in-laws and always enjoy their visits, clean bathrooms are a special treat, too.

We’re pretty traditional, with a big turkey and dressing and pies and a lot of stuff I eat even though I’m not sure exactly what it is. We say grace and talk about what we’re thankful for, and we watch the Cowboys play. My in-laws are Texans, and on Thanksgiving we’re all Dallas fans.

Once, in 1986, we had Thanksgiving in Texas and the Cowboys were playing the Seahawks, and to our horror the Hawks won. Just creamed them. And while my wife’s family was polite and said nice things about the game, I remember we had to hitch a ride to the airport and didn’t get Christmas cards from them for a couple of years. Texans take their football very seriously.

Food, football, and family. And I have a lot to be thankful for, as always. But just now, as I was sitting at the computer here thinking about Thanksgiving, I noticed something that reminded me how complicated gratitude can be sometimes.

When I was a kid, I loved to go visit my Grandma Baker. She’d always give me paper and pencil and I’d sit at her kitchen table and write stuff. When I got a bit older she’d let me use her typewriter, and I’d peck out stories about Batman or Daniel Boone or whatever my latest television-inspired interest was.

One day, when I was on a Zorro kick, I sat down and began an involved, complicated plot that as I recall involved a train robbery and a kidnapping and lots of sword fights and possibly time travel. My typing skills were pretty primitive, of course, and when my parents announced it was time to go, I was only a quarter of the way through my story and just coming to the good part, and I burst into tears.

Grandma stepped in. She told my folks she’d take me home later, and she fed me a nice dinner and then sat down at the typewriter and had me dictate my Zorro story to her as she typed it.

I should note that my grandmother was a complicated person. She’d led a pretty rough life, and could be an opinionated and sharp-tongued woman at times. As I grew older she made me uncomfortable and I tried to avoid her. This was a rotten thing to do but I did it, and I hurt her feelings a lot.

Once, when I was about 25, I’d been thoughtless once again to Grandma and I wrote her a letter. I apologized, and I thanked her for that time when I was a kid. She wrote back, telling me that of course she forgave me, that she remembered the Zorro thing too, and that she thought sometimes the two of us just didn’t understand each other. This was a gracious thing to say, and true enough, I guess.

She’s been gone quite a while now, but my dad’s stepfather died only two years ago. As my parents went about the chore of straightening his affairs, they found that he had kept almost everything he and my grandmother had accumulated over the years. As things were disposed of, they asked if any of the kids wanted something as a keepsake before they sold it or gave it away.

So now, on my desk, sits a gray 1955 Remington manual typewriter. As I work at the computer it’s visible in the corner of my eye. If I squint a little, I can almost see an 8-year-old boy hunched over the keyboard, slowly typing his stories. I keep it there to remind me how a single act of kindness can resonate over the years. It’s a good thing to remember.

I’m glad I thanked her. It occurred to me today, though, that sometimes being grateful comes with responsibility, even if it’s subtle. Sometimes it’s just accepting our good fortune and being aware of those who have less. Sometimes it’s about passing a good deed along to someone else. And sometimes it’s about debt, and implied promises.

As she drove me home that night, my grandma told me that I was a good little writer, and that she was sure someday I would write something just for her.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it took this long.