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Thank You So Much, Dear Readers,
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From The Publisher
You know what's fantastic? Coming home to a busted fridge. Right before Thanksgiving. What's even better? Walking into a home containing a broken fridge, with two heaving armfuls of groceries. And the cherry on top? Never getting the messages about the busted fridge because a phone, for some odd reason, refused to deliver group text messages. All hail technology, and planned obsolescence! Why am I even surprised? In the last month, a portion of our roof caved in, our dog required emergency surgery, and what about those funny noises coming from our car...

This is not my favorite holiday. Eight years ago (man, has it been that long...) I was fiddling with clay in Australia when I received an email from my mom. She'd caught a terminal case of Lou Gehrig's disease, and had gone through specialists and tests aplenty, before sharing the devastation. Thanksgiving that year was spent with my adopted Sydney family; they cushioned me from my own nightmare as I made plans to return to the US to take care of her.

Thanksgiving the following year, mom and I were ensconced in Florida, and though her diet was very limited, and because her swallowing muscles were nearly-obliterated, I first made all the foods she could have, and then minced them into baby food. I artfully arranged them on a plate and in a small goblet as best I could, and she looked at me with her big eyes full of the love that only a mother and child can know, and enjoyed her "rainbow of mush."

She didn't make it to the following year's Thanksgiving.

You know what, though? I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the time I had with her, for she was truly a mother for the ages. Mary Celia lived for her kids and her grandkids. She was my best friend and biggest fan, an incredible artist, stubborn, innocent, industrious, singular. I feel her absence acutely... this holiday is especially difficult, but I also feel her presence — when I look at my daughter, hell, when I open my mouth. Although, she would never swear — even when she severely disliked someone, she would lean into my ear, though we were alone, and whisper, "She's such a 'B'." Then giggle at her own impropriety. Toward the end, when she had lost her voice, I was her mouthpiece and eagerly hurled expletives when necessary — first to her embarrassment and horror — but finally to her ultimate delight. I love you mom, forever.

I'm also thankful to all the amazing readers and subscribers and benefactors for believing in what we do here, for supporting us every day, every month — because without you, there would be no SJ, no independent, community journalism.

As we slide into this holiday on the gravy train, and roll our eyes at relatives who are obviously bonkers, and pretend to be enthralled by Aunt Gladys's macaroni necklace, and debate — or refuse to — the maelstrom of topics that swirl in the vortex of the world at large, rest assured that this moment in Time is set aside for thankfulness, for sober reflection and drunken gluttony, for slashing one more notch on the yearly belt (and perhaps loosening it a rivet or two), for catching up with those folks who share some DNA with us, for we all share some if you go back far enough.

So, listen to Alice's Restaurant, do your Aunt Gladys a favor and marvel at her macaroni necklace or porcelain cat collection, because tis the season for magnanimity. Indulge in that second slice, forget the fridge for now, get the car checked out later, thank your incredible husband for fixing the roof, give the dogs a special helping of turkey, and call your grandma, because she's 99 and it's ridiculous to conceive of everything she's witnessed. Ask to hear the story, once again, of how she met grandpa, and what being in the Women's Army Corps was like. Rub your belly, and the dogs, hug your loved ones before they pass out, and, as an act of attrition, throw your hands up and accept that this is the youngest you'll ever be, so be kind. Always be kind.

And please, please pass the stuffing.

— Amberly Jane Campbell



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