Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Not when I was young when the adults sat at a separate table and seemed to be having more fun, but now when I am one of the adults having fun. Heretofore there has been no downside to Thanksgiving, it is just a time to get together – with people you want to be with – and give thanks. But now there are cracks starting to appear in this idealized facade. The first Thanksgiving was a nice dinner with some Indians who – in the long run – had most of their land taken away – not to mention that the majority of them died (although murdered may be more accurate). A couple of times this year, I ran into references connecting the European immigration to the destruction of the native culture and peoples and I think that the pace is picking up.

As an aside, several times over this Thanksgiving, I ran into references to the Indians – in some cases now being referred to as First Nations – being better stewards of the land than their white conquerers.  I don’t buy this. I think that the difference between what the First Nations did to the environment compared to what we are doing is, essentially, a difference in capacity. The Miwoks, after all, burned out Yosemite Valley to make hunting easier. End aside.

I have mixed emotions about this and am reminded of my grandmother Bambow. After my grandfather died, my grandmother lived alone and, every couple of weeks, one or more of her descendants – usually my mother – would go up to Santa Rosa and take her shopping. She – we – would fill her shopping cart to overflowing and then she would waddle to the checkout counter pushing the cart while one of us would follow, picking up the boxes that slid off of the pile. Once, as my grandmother got close to the checkout, a woman with a bottle of milk tried to scurry ahead of her. (This was way before the time of 15 items or less checkout lines.) With a mighty shove, my grandmother pushed her cart infront of this poor soul, cutting her off.

The woman couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t either. It was just a nasty move. The woman looked at my grandmother and said Well, I hope you are happy! My grandmother looked back at her and said, Of course I am, I won, didn’t I. I probably took the opportunity to admire the floor tiles.

But, now I feel a little like that about the Indians or First Nations if you prefer. What we did was nasty, probably even to the point of being genocide, but we won and I am happy we are on this wonder-filled continent. Celebrating Thanksgiving.

Michele and Steve have been living together – at the same place – for twenty years.

I do hope that it is not just because I am getting old, but one of my major enjoyments is going to the Farmer’s Market on Weekends. As much as possible because we are often out of town or have something else going. The scarcity of deep winter that turned into some leafy things in spring and then the abundance of the livin’ is  easy summer is all a prelude to the explosion of the fall harvest season.

The two Farmer’s Markets that we have habituated on are Saturday at the College of San Mateo, just 16 miles up 280, and Menlo Park, just 7.5 miles of traffic jamming away. As aside, San Mateo used to be a suburb of San Francisco. When I grew up there, and the Market Street streetcar from San Fran eventually ended up in San Mateo on B Street. Now the College of San Mateo advertises itself   as located at the northern corridor of Silicon Valley. End aside.

On Sunday, we went to the Farmer’s Market is in Menlo Park. For Michele, the first stop was to get a couple of the last tomatoes of the season.

For me, it was to get some greens, while listening to a jazzy combo in the background.

But the stars of the day were the squashes and other fall only fruits? veggies? whatever.

And, of course, this being California – and in San Mateo County, a long time flower growing area – orchids.

From Menlo Park, it was north to San Francisco to see Tracy’s Open Studio.