‘Tis the season to be thankful, which is why I am hanging tight to the fourth Thursday in November. I may be hanging on by the greasy tip of a wishbone swinging dangerously low over scalding hot gravy, but I refuse to let go of Thanksgiving, the only holiday that has not been grossly commercialized.

For starters, I am thankful there is no giant turkey at the mall. If you know about a mall charging outrageous prices for pictures of kids with a giant turkey, don’t tell me. Spare me.

There is a horn of plenty full of other things to be thankful for as well.

I am thankful that not one of our neighbors has an entire cast of First Thanksgiving giant inflatable figures towering in their yards.

I am thankful that there is no tradition of stuffing turkey cavities with a glut of candy, cheap trinkets and presents soon forgotten. I am thankful that the primary thing we stuff at Thanksgiving is ourselves. Can I have an amen?

I am thankful for Thanksgivings past on my grandparents’ farm with a slew of aunts and uncles and more than two dozen cousins. I am thankful that when the adults had enough, they had the wisdom to shout—loudly and in unison—“All you kids, get outside and stay outside!”

Oh, that children today should enjoy such harsh edicts. We were forbidden to go near the pigs or the milk cows, but we could peek in on the horses, climb into the hayloft, befriend a cat, discover kittens, play with the dogs or wander aimlessly through the woods.

Go ahead, punish me like that again.

I am thankful for all the Thanksgiving meals my mother made, for steam rolling down the kitchen window as that doohickey on top of the pressure cooker rocked wildly, for pumpkin pies made from the recipe on the Libby’s label, warm dinner rolls, sage stuffing and a pretty table set with the good dishes and candles. The woman worked culinary wonders in a very small kitchen with, at most, 3-square-feet of counter space.

I am thankful for every year Dad paused between bites and said, “Not another house on the entire street is eating a meal as fine as this one.” I didn’t know how he knew that, but I knew he was right.

Although many of those people are gone now, I am thankful for the memories etched deep into my heart.

This year, I am thankful that I am the one hosting Thanksgiving. Between all of us, we have three 6-foot folding tables and benches. Weather providing, I am confident I can sell the group on eating outdoors as a tribute to the First Thanksgiving.

I am thankful that sometime after the meal, a son-in-law will start the crossword and not bristle when a gaggle of kids breathe down the back of his neck and clamor to help.

I am thankful that the grandkids will go outside without even being told to go outside. There will be football, kickball, basketball and steal-the-flag as daylight wanes and another Thanksgiving fades into the twilight.

I am grateful they will all take home leftovers so we will not gain five pounds each, consuming hundreds of thousands of calories all by ourselves.

As they all load into cars, Grandpa will assume sprinter position on the sidewalk and race each vehicle to the corner. I will stand in the driveway, waving goodbye and praying for each one of them until the last car is out of sight.

It is good to give thanks.

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