“How Thanksgiving Began” by John McWhinnie

You once asked me to narrate the tale of how my once illustrious, but now tragically fallen, family played a role in the first thanksgiving and to give you an account of how thanksgiving truly began. That day I refused your request: but it is clear to me that rumors of the hidden shame my family brought upon our young nation has escaped from our small circle of friends and migrated to its nether regions. Just last night Heather, perhaps aware of some of the sketchy history of my family’s ignoble role in the creation of Thanksgiving, requested to hear the sordid tale. And so I’ve decided that it’s time to face squarely the terrible misdeeds of my ancestors and to tell you all something of our tawdry past and, in the telling, convey some of the terror that Thanksgiving holds for me and the entire McWhinnie brood. This Thanksgiving I’ll break my silence and tell you about the tradition of thanksgiving and in doing so, perhaps purge some the enormous guilt carried by the McWhinnie name: a guilt so profound that I tremble when I think of it, and in the trembling, shake too, and while shaking, start to quake a little, and finally, a little quivering – the dreaded, unholy, quivering, unnerving me and shaking at the very place where our souls meet the body and in that conjoinment, make us the spiritual animals, carne and logos, we are each fated to be.
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