This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Oct. 7, 1939.
Never does a fire burn so brightly or give out more comfort than when a cold storm is lashing at the house and flooding the windows with rain. Then we draw to the fire and are thankful for the sanctuary of roof and walls.
The world is in confusion, the air quivers with tales of bloodshed and lawlessness. The law of the jungle has superseded the laws of man and God. How can we talk of thankfulness when we hear of refugees fleeing from their burning homes and fired on by machine guns? But it is not of these that I am going to write.
People today will be putting the finishing touches on the decorations in churches for the Thanksgiving services. Pumpkins, like great globes of sunshine, will lie against banks of goldenrod, purple asters and blue Michaelmas daisies. Red apples, rubbed until they shine, will line window-sills. Cobs of golden corn will be made into mottoes, spelling out in junctions to thankfulness. Gourds, in their whimsical markings, useless but ornamental, will attract the eye with their dots and dashes of color and their fantastic shapes.
On this one Sunday of the year, the vegetable garden makes its annual appearance in church. Flowers are regular attenders, but tomorrow even the sturdy potato, scrubbed pink and smooth, will foregather with the cauliflower and carrot.
Let no one think there is not a fine art in these decorations, where grains, grasses, flowers and fruit are used to make a picture of abundance and beauty. This part of Thanksgiving will not fail, nor will the long dinner table be shortened this year. The turkey will be brown and juicy, set in a bed of parsley. The cranberry jelly will be set and clear, and the pumpkin pie will be served with whipped cream or maple syrup.
There will be one empty chair at the table, for it is very doubtful that leave will be granted to the soldiers in barracks, even for Thanksgiving Day.
Still, the chair is set, hopefully, but as the meal goes on, and he does not come, the conversation dulls a bit.
However, the family is determined to be cheerful on Thanksgiving Day, and someone brings in the good news that the anemones planted a few weeks ago are showing their feathery tops, and the primrose that we separated and planted last month, have apparently all sprouted and will make a lovely show next spring in front of the kitchen door. The cut-down delphiniums are all in bud again and will soon be a bright bit of colour in the border. And the snapdragons, too, are doing well.
One cheerful prophet suggests that the fall flowering of the garden might equal that of the spring, with the California tree poppies still blooming, white as ivory, especially in the dusk, and the chrysanthemums beginning to break.
She does not get a seconder on this, however, for everyone knows she is just being cheerful and covering over with a mat of flowers the grim thoughts that are in everyone’s mind.
When the dinner is over, there is no desire to scatter, after the fashion of families, where each one pursues his own devices on a holiday. The conversation droops and languishes. Flares are set up which seem to kindle and burn for a moment, but the cold breath of reality, blowing on them, sends them down in ashes.
Suddenly the youngest member of the family looks up from her funny papers.
“There has always been trouble in this world,” she says; “there has always been people starving and out of work and in need of things they cannot have. Years ago people didn’t know about it as well as we do now, and a lot of people didn’t care, even if they did know; but now we know and we have to do something about it.
“I am thankful today that we know so much, even if it does make us sad, for we can all do something. When one of the girls in our room lost all her clothes and toys and everything because her house burned, we wrote her notes and our teacher said that was all right as far as it went, but notes could not be used for anything afterward but lighting a fire, so we shared our toys with her and got her a new set of books and had a shower at the school for her of handkerchiefs and stockings.
“Even the Negro slaves, homesick and friendless because they were forced to come away from their own villages in Africa and work every hour of the day for hard masters, even they did something for humanity, for they sang, and now we have the Negro spirituals.”
Having delivered her message, she went back to her funny papers, but something happened. Her flare had caught.
Outside, the day began to clear. Amber sunshine struggled through the fog and made every maple tree glow with colour against the sombre hue of the evergreens. It caught the sails of a boat passing through the straits in front of us, and the whole atmosphere of the room changed.
“I am thankful,” said one of the women, “that I belong to a country where we have freedom of speech, even for youngsters. When I was young I was schooled in the belief that good children were seen but never heard, and if that rule had been enforced today we would have missed this contribution from the junior congregation here. Now let us follow her lead and tell what we have to be thankful for.”
“I am glad that our country has been dropping leaflets on the enemy instead of bombs, and I hope that they will continue. Let us never forget that the Chinese led the way in that,” said “the friend to China” as she got out her knitting for the Chinese Hospital Aid.
Then one of the men came into the conversation.
“I am glad,” he said, “that every one of the countries that embarked on a course of suppressing human freedom had to silence the church first, and now there is something that each of us can do in this fight for human liberty — we can stand by the institution that teaches that man is made in God’s image. I’ll put that in as my number 1 cause for thankfulness. We still have the church and its voice is heard.”
The questioner brought out a variety of reasons for gratitude.
“I am glad I came wearing lisle stocking,” said the knitter. “If all the women in Canada and the United States would do it, we would be able to curb Japanese aggression against China.”
Then the visitor spoke:
“I am glad Germany has had to call back her Jewish doctors and technicians. I hope they don’t go, but I’m afraid they will. Their love of the Fatherland goes deep and cannot be destroyed even by injustice and suffering. The people of Canada will never know what love of country really is until they have suffered for it. You are so well off here — you should be the most grateful people on Earth.”
A silence fell on the family then, and each one’s thoughts were busy. One of the women went over to the piano and began to play the grand old hymn tune known as Dresden, and the familiar words of the children’s hymn gave expression to their mood:
“He only is the maker
Of all things near and far;
He paints the wayside flower,
He lights the evening star.
No gift we have to offer
For all his love imparts
But that which he desirest
Our humble, thankful hearts.”
And so it came about that a Canadian family, living in that most British city of Canada, Victoria, gave expression to their gratitude on Thanksgiving Sunday in the words of a German hymn, written by a German composer many years ago.
