debt of gratitude

Last night, after eating a ridiculous meal that Michael spent all afternoon preparing while I was upstairs with a postictal Calvin, we mused on things we are grateful for. My husband said the nicest things anyone could say about me, nearly bringing me to tears. I read him yesterday's post noting my thanksgivings. In doing so, I realized how woefully remiss I had been in failing to mention so many other essentials to be thankful for, so I've added them here today:

Farmers who grew the wheat, potatoes, carrots, green beans and pumpkin, and raised the pigs, dairy cows and turkey for our meal. The pigs and dairy cows and turkey themselves. Migrant workers who risk their lives doing the back-breaking work of harvesting crops, and the dangerous labor of butchering, preparing and packing the meats we put on our table. Truckers who drive their rigs long distance to deliver the perishables to stores. Men and women who laid down large sections of road to get us where we and the truckers are going. Grocery store clerks and workers who risk their lives in a pandemic to help keep the rest of us fed. Nurses and doctors who have saved Calvin's life on two occasions, and others who are risking their lives during a pandemic to treat us and keep us alive. Indigenous Americans whose sacred ancestral lands, villages, culture, language and children were pillaged, and whose people were massacred by White colonizers; their descendants are fighting to preserve their rights and land and water to this day. Captured and enslaved Black men, women and children whose sweat and labor is the very foundation of this nation and its successes, and has built and buttressed so many White people's fortunes and privileges, however modest; their descendants are fighting against oppression to this day.

To these and those I humble myself, and owe a debt of gratitude—and more—every day of the year.

A similar feel to last night

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