I should take a photograph, I said, after we’d begun to eat our Thanksgiving dinner. It followed a day of sunlight, a brief swim in cold water, some log-splitting, some talk by the fire. I almost didn’t make a special dinner. We were in Gatineau last weekend and had a few wonderful meals with our family there and a friend is coming next week (I think?) so we will celebrate nearly 50 years of friendship then as well. But then I thought we shouldn’t let the day pass without note.
Middle English thanken, from Old English þancian, þoncian “give thanks; to recompense, to reward,” from Proto-Germanic *thankōjanan (source also of Old Saxon thancon, Old Norse þakka, Danish takke, Old Frisian thankia, Old High German danchon, Middle Dutch, Dutch, German danken “to thank”), from *thankoz “thought; gratitude” (from PIE root *tong- “to think, feel”).
It is related phonetically to think as song is to sing; for sense evolution, compare Old High German minna “loving memory,” originally “memory.” Also compare related Old English noun þanc, þonc, originally “thought,” but also “good thoughts, gratitude.”
There are many things to be thankful for, though the world burns and tornadoes rage and crazy men act out their most violent impulses. I am thankful. I am healthy, I have a wonderful family, I have love in my life, I have a pile of books by my bed so that I can read myself to sleep each night, I have a handful of dear and treasured friends. When I look out the windows of my house, a house I helped to build, I see trees I’ve known for 47 years, a mountain that is my weatherglass, birds who come for breakfast each morning, the occasional elk herd passing through, bears who are sometimes a nuisance but always beautiful. Inside, the scent of cedar and alder burning in the woodstove. A basket with a folded quilt-in-progress to occupy my hands and thinking. An archive of my own books.
So I made a meal for the two of us to share. Prime rib, smashed potatoes like the ones we loved in Porto last November (the young man who served us told us his mother’s method), brussel sprouts roasted with tiny cubes of double-smoked bacon, lemon zest, and lemon balsamic vinegar, squash roasted with maple syrup and ras el hanout, a few Yorkshire puddings, just because, the salad we call Oaxacan because we first had this version at Cafe Boulenc (sort of panzanella, with toasted sourdough cubes, tomatoes, cucumbers, thin slices of red onion, sliced green olives, lots of parsley and basil), and for dessert, baked pears with caramel sauce. You might see that there are two bottles of wine on the table. John loves an occasional glass of red, especially with beef; and in these later years, my system prefers white. His is something ordinary, that was already open. Mine is a Mâconnais chardonnay, uncorked for the occasion! And the glasses? The Waterford Clannad that John gave me for my 50th birthday, more than 20 years ago, still intact.
There are many things to be thankful for, though days pass when I don’t remember to acknowledge them. Sometimes looking at the etymology of a word makes me realize how much I don’t know, forget, or fail to measure up to. My first impulse was to let the day go by. This morning, putting away the beautiful platters and bowls, the shining Waterford glasses, I’m glad we sat at our table as the sun went down and gave thanks, a good and useful word. “It is related phonetically to think as song is to sing.” Though the world burns, though the crazy men rage.
Note: the quoted passage is from https://www.etymonline.com/word/thankhttps://
