Editor’s Note

Editor’s Note

In this time of Thanksgiving and holiday gatherings, we offer this archival column from our wonderful late columnist Wayne Downing.

Once upon a time (and not so long ago), I got this crazy idea to grab a box of wooden matches from a drawer in the kitchen and go outside. It was late at night and high in summer, the air was slow and lazy, the night was dark and sloppy like an old coat.

I was barefoot; the polish of grass washed my feet and scrubbed between my toes. Beyond the grass the bushes tickled in the breeze. Further on was silent darkness. I bent down to the ground near an open spot in the middle of the yard. I made a little teepee with my matches, a pyramid of wood with red sulfur tops. I pulled out another match and lit them all. In an instant they all lit up, I had a handy little fire.

I was proud of myself. I’d brought light to the darkness. I had a power that could challenge Mother Nature. But then my little fire that started so quickly began to burn itself out. I threw in more matches, and then some sticks I found lying close by.

I stared at the sky. A thousand million stars peered back. “I’m like you,” I said aloud. “Just like the greatest of stars.”

Pull Quote

My little fire showed me what I probably knew all along. We’re thankful for the people we’ve met, for letting us pick from their fire, no matter how little or for how long.

All of a sudden I had the most unusual thought. These aren’t stars, they’re fires just like mine is fire, from a million people just like me all over the world. I propped myself up on my elbows. “I know you,” I said, pointing to the sky above my head. “And you, and you and you.” Sometime in my life, maybe from a long time ago, maybe just yesterday: I met with you, I spoke with you, we were friends. You told me things and I believed you. You were my leader, my lover, my teacher, you were the singer who sang only to me…

I didn’t want to lose my fire. I emptied my box of matches onto my little smokestack. The flames flickered a little higher, burned a little brighter — and then settled into sleep. The branches burned down to embers, the matches to ash, it all became a shiny orange glow.

So that’s how it goes…

My little fire showed me what I probably knew all along. We’re thankful for the people we’ve met, for letting us pick from their fire, no matter how little or for how long.

I’m thankful for the one thing people have shared. They’ve shown us that life is better when we talk to each other. We need people whose names we don’t always remember; we need heroes and villains and people in between. We need to hold doors for ladies, we need to make cookies for bake sales and hire guys to fix our cars.

(Yet forgive me for those I have hurt, if I’ve stolen your love in little pieces or in pounds of flesh. I took more of your fire than you were willing to give. I can only say that the strongest man can be weak in his heart, and kindness often causes pain.)

So I’ve decided that most of us aren’t ready to quit, if we’re maimed and crippled, if death has come to call our name — We want to survive, we have more to do. That’s why I’m thankful, thankful for the fire, thankful for the time. We want more chances: if suddenly we realize how old we’ve become or how much we keep to ourselves. Maybe tomorrow we’ll start getting outside more. Maybe someone will make us a cake or buy us a present. (And maybe my grandchildren will come and sit on my lap. Maybe my son-in-law will tell my daughter more often that he loves her. Maybe an old girlfriend will tell me she made a mistake.)

So this season of Thanksgiving isn’t just about delicious meals, it’s a time of blessing. Thank you for my family and my friends, for my daughter and my wife. Thank you for breath when I’m tired, for strength when I labor, for blissful sleep and for the sun coming through the bedroom window in the morning.

I’m thankful even for the ones I’ve lost, they’ve given me moments of happiness that will endure to my last breath.

Let joy be my fire, let peace be my star.