We were walking the Camino de Santiago. Trudging toward some farflung village in the remote unseen.

There was a big group of us walking together. Jamie and I were the eldest of the group. Most of these pilgrims were in their teens or mid-20s. They were kids, far from home. And strays of all species have a tendency to follow my wife.

Such as the Japanese kid who had been in Spain alone. He’d met no other Japanese there in three weeks. He was isolated by language since his entire English vocabulary consisted of “yes,” “thank you,” and “Roll Tide.” I taught him the last one.

Our group marched forward. Feet scraping on the trail. Every language was spoken. But we found commonality in English.

We were talking about holidays, comparing our cultures. An American asked whether any other countries celebrated Thanksgiving.

“In Canada,” answered one young woman, “we have Action de grâce, which is like your American Thanksgiving. We have a feast with ham, turkey, mashed potatoes. The biggest difference is, we maple glaze

everything, including annoying relatives.”

“In Ireland, we have Lughnasa. It’s not like Thanksgiving at all. It’s an ancient Celtic harvest festival. We have food and drink and sport. Usually, there’s a long, post-meal walk up a giant hill. Then, according to tradition, everyone goes home and makes babies.”

“In Mexico we have many traditions for giving thanks. Our Lady of Guadelupe is one of our biggest holidays, many pilgrims leave their villages on foot, they walk for days to visit the basilica in Mexico City. Many of them walk barefoot until feet are bloody.”

“In South Korea, we celebrate ‘Chuseok.’ Celebration lasts for three day. All about gratitude. Very fun. Honor ancestors. Visit graves. Give many gifts. SPAM is very popular gift.”

“SPAM?” replied someone. “Seriously?”

“Many Asian cultures love SPAM.”

The Japanese kid smiled. Finally a word he understood. “SPAM! YES! SPAM! SO GOOD!”

The old woman felt weird, not cooking this year.

But she’d given up cooking Thanksgiving ever since the stroke paralyzed half of her body and forced her into an assisted living home.

Still, it was bizarre. Sitting on the sidelines, after all these years. Watching capable women bustle about the kitchen.

She watched her daughters and daughters-in-law lift large casserole pans, wash tall stacks of dishes, cracking open various bottles, jars, and plasticized containers of all shapes and denominations.

The old woman had prepared 54 Thanksgivings, solo. Fifty-four. And she’d been cooking Thanksgiving supper with her mother since before Franklin D. Roosevelt was a household name.

But now, she was doomed to sit in the bleachers. She rarely left the assisted living home—except for holidays like today.

As she watched her daughters move throughout the kitchen, she felt a strange mix of pride and sorrow. Pride, because her daughters were confident, adept mothers and homemakers. Sorrow, because life goes by so dang fast.

Her daughters removed the thawed turkey from its plastic wrapper. They placed the raw carcass onto a

large cutting board. One daughter removed a big cleaver and began cutting the turkey in half while the other held the bird with both hands.

The old woman watched while one painstakingly began to lob the turkey in half, cutting through bone and tendon.

The old mother couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Stop,” she said.

The young women quit cutting. They just looked at their mom.

“Why are you cutting that turkey in half?” the old woman asked.

“What do you mean?” said the oldest daughter. “This is how we’ve been cooking turkey for years, Mama.”

The old woman smiled. “Why would you do such a thing? Cutting it in half?”

The daughters exchanged a look. “Becuase that’s how YOU always cooked turkey, Mama. You’d cut it in half.”

The youngest daughter explained. “Mama, every year, when we were…

The Little League team was good. Really good. The nine mop-haired, lanky boys, clad in classic ‘70s harvest-gold uniforms, were undefeated this season. They had a shot at the pennant.

But then, devastation.

Their first baseman was sliding into home when he broke his shin in two places. Doctors operated. Wired his bones back together. The boys all signed his cast. Unless they could find a replacement, it was goodnight Irene.

The coach held tryouts. The whole team gathered. Every boy was anxious to find a new player who kick some proverbial posterior.

Two boys auditioned that afternoon.

The first was tall and strong. Square-jawed. Looked like he’d been shaving since age three. He was a natural athlete, wiry and agile, an RBI machine. Just wind him up and let him go.

The audition should have been over right then and there. But it wasn’t.

The second boy got his shot, too.

His name was Arnold. He was small, awkwardly built, and he walked funny. Arnold suffered from polio as a baby. He lifted the pantlegs of

his blue jeans to reveal metal braces.

“Braces?” the coach remarked. “You can’t run with those, son.”

“I can, sir,” the boy replied

So, the coach put him through drills. True to his word, the kid could run with the braces. He was slow. His gait looked more like skipping than running, almost like a strange dance. But he was doing it.

Next, the coach put Arnold in the infield.

Arnold missed half the balls hit to him, but he dove in the dirt, without care of injury, leapt as high as he could, and sprinted until he fell over and got mouthfuls of dust. Arnold showed more hustle than 50 boys his age.

Then, it was time for hitting. The tiny boy stood at the plate. Bat held at his ear. Out of breath from exertion. His little shirt was drenched.

That’s…