Everyone knows that Thanksgiving falls on a Thursday. To make sure that Thursday doesn’t just occur on a random Thursday of the 52 that we might have each year, presidents saw to it that we’d celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November. There was apparently some spat over whether it should be the last Thursday or the fourth Thursday, and for a while it was the third Thursday, but it was always a Thursday and it always came with warning.
And a warning is needed for this day of thanks, for without some preparation the turkey would be left in the freezer, unthawed, and corn and potatoes wouldn’t be present to make the proper side dishes, and even if there was some old bread in the cupboard there certainly wouldn’t be enough to make a proper Thanksgiving stuffing. This is why Thanksgiving is something we can plan on- so we can make take the proper steps days and weeks beforehand in order to insure that the day, the Thanksgiving Day, goes off without any particular hitch.
Now imagine it is three or four Thursday’s before the Thanksgiving Thursday, before the right Thursday. You are at work, your children are at school, and your wife is either at work or at home, whichever I cannot say. It is 11:30 am. You receive a call at your office from your Aunt Margaret and your Uncle Harry. They are at your door and they are wondering where on earth you could be. They have a jiggling jello in tow, and they are ready for the feast. They tell you that your mother and father are there too, as is your cousin from downstate and his gaggle of children. Your great aunt Ezra is on her way from the home, and if only you’d be there to open the door they could check to see that the turkey isn’t getting too brown, too quickly.
There is just one problem. Thanksgiving by your calendar is still three weeks away, but Thanksgiving for all practical purposes is waiting outside your door right at that moment. There is no time to defrost the great bird. There are potatoes in the basket in the pantry, but not nearly enough of them. There is a can or corn, perhaps two, but that scalloped corn recipe- the one with the crushed crackers and cracked pepper on top- calls four four. Thanksgiving cannot be rushed, but this year, that year, it must be. Hungry guests cannot wait, and who are you to ruin or even delay their Thanksgiving when it is you, not them, who is unprepared?
This is how I feel today. 70 degrees on March 13th is welcome, but I am not yet ready for it. I had made many plans, and there is a list with as many items as the sheet has lines, and there is work yet to be done before I am ready for 70. Piers are going in. They are in. There are more of them in yesterday and there will be more in by the end of today. Piers. In Geneva. March 13th. How can I prepare in such a hurry when my plans clearly called for spring to arrive in two more weeks? The boat, my boat, my precious, sweet, dirty, boat. It isn’t ready. It sits with a big blue tarp over it on a muddy patch behind a barn, and the dash has been removed and wires dangle in thick clutches- unlabeled wires. If I had time to figure out which lead goes where, that would be one thing. But I have no time. 70 and sunny has left me hurried and frantic, and when I see boaters out in their shiny boats, I wonder if they knew something that I didn’t. They were ready and I am not, and I so wanted to beat them onto the water.
So while 70 and sunny, and 77 and sunny tomorrow, are most beautiful, and I will indeed do what I can to embrace them, I admit to you today that I would much prefer 50 and sunny. 50 gives me time. It doesn’t make me rush, and it doesn’t leave me with this list that needs to be done tomorrow. There are work items that pile high each day, higher than they normally might for this day in March, and there is a magazine, a great, beautiful magazine that I must send to print in a mere six weeks. There were houses to show yesterday and there are sellers to meet today, but there is also a fishing pole tucked into the trunk of my car, and I will find a way to cast it in front of Uhlein’s Creek today just as I did yesterday, if only for a minute. There is no time to address to dangling wires and the dirty hull, and the trolling motor that must be installed hasn’t even arrived yet. This is lake stress, and with each white horse stuck into each wooden crib, this spring stress grows.