Most often thoughts of the Thanksgiving holiday are forward-looking, anticipating what may come. Mention the word “Thanksgiving” and visions immediately come to mind of juicy slices of turkey, candied yams, dressing doused with savory turkey gravy, hot rolls dripping butter, cranberry relish and, of course, the pies – pumpkin, mince and pecan. We stuff ourselves with these gifts beyond normal limits, sometimes to the edge of exploding. We do that as a ritual which oddly is meant to express “thanks” to the Creator – or to Nature’s God – for the fullness of our lives. The more one gorges, the more thankful one is? Is that the message eaters send to their Creator as the fats and carbohydrates slide down their gullets? Probably, not. Probably, no message accompanies such gluttony. Just more gluttony.
But, other visions or ideas occasionally spring from time and place at Thanksgiving.
The long stretch of highway that ascends for some miles from the Columbia River toward Goldendale in the State of Washington, is mostly hemmed in by steeply rising grasslands, outcroppings of basalt showing here and there. In late fall, the outlook can be bleak and unpromising. One drives upward cruising around one curve after another, a never-ending sequence of turns and bends, seemingly tighter and tighter, as if the loops and twists are winding you up into some kind of a sphere, maybe even an outsize, bloated pea – yes, pea – from which you feel you may never escape.
You do, of course. The moment of escape comes when you reach the plateau that tops the end of that long grinding rise and which stretches north into central Washington. On our way to that part of the world for a Thanksgiving get-away, suddenly and without forewarning, we popped out of the winding confinement of the upward journey into a moment that was surrealistic. As if sketched by hand with an indelible marker, the crown of the plateau stretched across bright, blue sky broken here and there – on all sides and straight ahead, too – with the upward thrust of wind turbines. Where had they come from? Who had planted them? Why were they there?
Of course I knew the answers. Nonetheless, their unexpected appearance produced a gasp. Somehow they didn’t belong on that landscape, as if they were alien monsters from some far off universe. Would they attack and devour us? Or fly away? Stand silently aloof while the blades turned slowly doing cartwheels in the air? Continue for all eternity, changing the energy of passing breezes into electrical pulses that were no longer going anywhere – because mankind had disappeared from the earth? Turning, turning, slowly turning. The vision passed, a transient moment that disappeared as we speeded onto the plateau to our Thanksgiving destination.
There, an idea – not really a vision – took shape, just a probing thought, yet somehow and somewhat distantly related to that surrealistic moment a day or two before when the sudden emergence of the wind turbines had caused my mind to flit to an imagined, future time. This time a backward look, an enduring presence from a time long past, prompted me to speculate about the future. The thought that tickled my mind was random, the kind that sometimes floats into your head when distracted or stimulated – take your pick – over a glass or two of a really good wine. In fact, that was what I was doing, raising a glass to my lips to sip wine after wine – all good stuff – in a tasting room. It wasn’t the wine, however, that brought the new outlook to mind. It was the place, the tasting room itself, although wine no doubt aided the process.
What was special about the tasting room? It resembled a cave. “Yes,” you say, there are many tasting rooms that resemble caves. True. But, one wall of this room exposed the face of massive pillars of Columbia River basalt. It was not a reconstruction, a plaster facsimile, but the real thing. The basalt had overflowed the landscape as hot lava some 15 million years ago, and then congealed into huge, enduring rock faces. It was as if the winery had burrowed into time past when it uncovered their over-awing bulk. The cave’s dim light displayed a designer’s clever imagination and craft. It also put on view – close up – 15 million years gone by. Measured by the time scale which embraced these rugged pillars, we who sat casually sipping Sauvignon Blanc and Merlot were just a dot, an incremental nothing.
The basalt had rested in this place for millions of years before man began to wander the planet. It would not move unless upset by some remote cataclysm for millions more. That was clear. For how long, I speculated, would man roam about, sampling wine here and there? As long as these basalt pillars would stand, confronting the cosmos? Which would have the longer life span? Would you care to bet?
I drifted from distant time to future moments, back and forth. Wine and basalt, in juxtaposition, had a way of inducing such thoughts, of leading one to senseless speculation about the unknowable. Unlike the view of wind turbines, no fleeting vision sprang into my head. It was a foolish, disjointed notion that had momentarily thrown me off the main chance.
So, it was back to the main chance. First, a bit more wine. Then, on to the turkey, the dressing, the gravy… the things that mattered, that were measurable and about which I could really rack up a score… if that is the right word.
