Random Thoughts at Thanksgiving Time

(Originally published 11/21/17)

It’s that time of year again when so many of us say, "I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving already!" Honestly, it did come quickly this go-round—incredibly so. The mystery of time accelerating deepens with each passing year. It also calls to my mind this Adam West's Batman recitation to his trusty butler: “How little do we know of time, Alfred—a one-syllable word…a noun…yesterday’s laughter…tomorrow’s tears.” And, sadly, Adam West recently shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe old age of eighty-eight. How little do we know of time—indeed. For Adam West seemed eternally middle-aged—ever the man with the spot-on campy timing. Nobody could have delivered the How little do we know of time sermon like Adam West—nobody.

Speaking of time, I visited a local hospital’s emergency room this past week—not as a patient in this instance, but as someone offering moral support. Eleven years ago, I was in that same space as a patient. I can candidly say that being on the outside looking in is worlds apart from being on the inside looking out. Without my life on the line, I got to be more of an observer of the frenetic atmosphere that goes with the territory. Foremost, most of the people I encountered appeared to be there for non-life-threatening matters. The worst cases were being tended to behind closed doors and curtains. An intern doctor did approach a woman within earshot of me to pose a couple of questions about her pressing medical concern. He asked, “Are you having trouble peeing?” and “Do you have a burning sensation when you pee?” I thought about a thing called medical privacy as I overheard the minutia—too much information—of this woman’s health problem.

With the pee queries on my brain, one thought led to another. First of all, I would have guessed a doctor would use the word “urinate” in lieu of “pee,” but then he could have substituted with “Number One.” And while on the subject of pee, urine, Number One—whatever floats your boat—I can’t get it out of mind nowadays when I watch old television westerns. Not a solitary soul ever has to take a pee or—heaven forbid—do a “Number Two.” I’ve been into the early seasons of Wagon Train starring Ward Bond and Robert Horton. Unlike Bonanza, this show was never in reruns during my youth. And while there are some good episodes therein, the uber-cleanliness strikes an off-putting chord with me. After binge-watching the likes of Deadwood and Hell on Wheels—with their foulness on full display—it’s hard not to notice when filth is in short supply where it most assuredly would be. It’s hard not to notice, too, when people are shot—and teetering on the brink between life and death in bed on a wagon train for a week or more—without needing a change in pants.

If it’s an otherwise quality script, I can suspend my disbelief for fifty minutes or so. Still, when I recently viewed an episode of Wagon Train where Major Adams, Flint McCullough, and others were seated on the ground and chained to a wall for a week in sub-freezing, snowy Sierra high country—and fed only one measly square a day—I couldn’t help but notice that not one of them looked worse for the wear. Their clothes were pressed and clean and—remarkably—no one needed a shave.

Well, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. My local Rite Aid drug store annually plays host to a Christmas tree seller. The gang has set up shop and today had trees for sale for the first time. I think it’s the same bunch from a year ago—shifty characters who wouldn’t quote a price until the tree was fully opened. The bushier trees cost more. Yet the various tree stumps were height-colored.  Upright sellers price their trees according to height—period and end of story.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)