Black Robe

Thanksgiving had been co-opted by the party good suppliers, greeting card manufacturers, and mail-order catalogs of the world, and as young intellectuals, we were afraid we'd never get it back. Our generation saw holiday seasons twisted into nightmarish marathons of brutish endurance that wasted our time and money, becoming unruly scenes that would take an army of Dr. Phil's to undo in their individual dysfunctions. 

We watched in horror as people gorged themselves on shopping and bad food, through dystopian scenes shown on our parent's evening news programs that seemed lifted from a scifi movie about the Apocalypse. People were trampled to death during buying frenzies in pursuit of the latest toy craze, like a Cabbage Patch doll. Imagine dying over THAT. Giving thanks in a meaningful way had become supplanted by something advertisers called "Black Friday", as a prelude to a Christmas that was the complete opposite of good cheer.

As we deconstructed the painful pasts of our history books, we talked about how it all went wrong, beginning with an overly romanticized version of the Pilgrims meeting the Indians for the first time, in a goofy portrayal of Northern Europeans as naive waifs somehow caught in a wintertime they'd never met, utterly dependent on the suckling teat of the local, pipe-smoking natives scantily clad in a hippie fantasy of leather headbands and groovy feathers.

It was as preposterously out-of-date as our textbooks, especially to us French Canadian kids who knew better. Their Jamestown was not our Quebecois settlement or Acadian mixed marriage, right off the boat. It was one story about one tribe meeting one group of puritanical Englanders famed for their firebrand of religious extremism that got them kicked out of Merry Old Englande. My ship-faring ancestors came here to trade and mate, hopefully at the same time. Knowing the men in my family, that sounds about right.

By contrast, in college we learned about the First Nations and their territories through the geography of who did what where, at which time. It wasn't as simple as "white man=bad, Indian=good", just a lot more honest, and why not? We were there to learn. After me and my boyfriend made fun of the wacky anachronisms in "Dances with Wolves", we'd tell them to check out a film that's been called one of the most realistic depictions of indigenous life from colonization times that's ever been made into a movie, through the eyes of a French missionary and his Huron allies. Let's just say this: the Mohegans live up to their name.

For Americans lucky enough to have First Contact stories, why not share that over the usual turkey talk this year? Instead of finding an enemy sitting across the table from you separated by a wall you built, you might find family, like we did. Blessings to you.

WUTR: Utica/Rome

Me and my best friend had way more than altitude to adjust to, deep in the remote mountains of upstate New York. Before the Internet and cell phones, we had a pay phone on the first floor that we shared with an entire dorm and a television in the common room, also on the first floor. We'd already broken a lot of rules in the dorm and around campus, the least of which was having a hot plate in our room for heating up cans of soup or making box mac and cheese, in direct violation of the dorm's fire code. There were no microwave dinners, no cable TVs, no personal computers, and no anxious "helicopter parents" circling overhead. We were free.

Our relative isolation from the rest of the world created a bubble for young minds to thrive, especially in exploration of the past through our art history and history textbooks. It didn't really matter what day or time it was, because we lived through our studies, anyway. The allure of being out of touch in a cool way has trapped many a hippie perpetually in college towns, like the demon from the movie 'Krampus' captures souls stuck in so many snow globes sitting on its shelf. There was something eerily dead about going to the same bar forever, dating the same tie-dyed wearing sophomore over and over again.

We'd shudder in the frigid evenings over the possibility of a similar fate, which propelled us past incredible odds to our respective educational careers: Karen from urban-based Yonkers, and me from the projects in Queens. Sometimes we wondered like 'The Talking Heads', "....how did we get here?", only to be brutally reminded of our commitment to our ideals by a six-hour bus ride through the frozen tundra of a nearly deserted landscape. In the overheated dorm rooms of our engaged minds, we always left a window open to catch the coldness of the crisp, clear mountain air.

After a night of Old Milwaukee and weak pot, we slunk down to the first floor to watch TV on the sly, with our reputations preceding us. It was late, so we'd escaped the voracious Long Island crowd that were more supported in their daily habits by their similarly enabled parents. Used to the abuse that comes with shared family spaces, we sank into the old, sunken couch with a sigh of relief, in a mostly dark room that was empty of other kids. Finally! We had the TV to ourselves, without the petty power plays or bitchy stand-offs that happened among the factions of hardcore viewers in the dorm with time and madness on their sides. Kids would plot TV "takeovers" in the cafeteria with their dorm-mates by shouting down anyone who objected to their "Must See TV" during coveted time slots.

But, like two weary, single moms at the end of yet another tough day, we just wanted to put up our feet and relax without making a highly charged political statement about how spoiled and compulsive we weren't. We'd had enough of that growing up. So, one late night found us turning the dial on the TV unmolested by cries of outrage, to catch Letterman or maybe a "Honeymooners" rerun. Didn't really matter. New York City channels usually showed black-and-white classics or freaky monster movies for the overnight crowd working the night shift at the precinct or in the ER; great, working-class stuff.

We'd gotten to the right point of mellow before bedtime when catastrophe struck. We'd lost the signal! Some old movie started playing, then cut out to a screen full of static. What the...? We were left to spend the rest of the night in wondering paranoia. Had the Russians attacked? Was it nuclear war? A media blackout based on alien invasion? What? WHAT? WHAT?! What the fuck just happened? We'd adjusted the rabbit ears, unplugged and replugged the set, banged on the side of it until horizontal lines shimmied across the tube; no such luck. Our electronic babysitter was dead. It was humbling to our superior senses of self, as well-adjusted freshmen.

The next morning in the cafeteria, we immediately told our friends the bad news. Someone had to approach the Residence Hall Director with the creepy molester 'stache about buying a new TV ("dude, we should totally draw straws to see who does it"), because the old one had just cut out. Huh? What are you guys talking about? Our friend from Buffalo was a blue collar girl used to working the early morning shift at the local convenient store, so she'd already been up to catch "her programs" at six a.m., and the set was working just fine. What'd you two do?

Nothing! We protested. We did absolutely nothing but turn the thing on and sit down. Must've been a signal drop, because we were watching some old movie and then the fuzz came on. Wait a minute...our friend from Syracuse asked us around what time. Oh, we didn't know. It was late. Letterman had been on, then some war movie started with this big flag flying and the National Anthem playing...no, wait, dude! Probably a baseball movie, hence the music....yeah, that was it. Totally.

Our upstate friends erupted into hysterical shrieks of laughter, crying at the cafeteria table, clutching themselves and each other. Me and Karen just looked at each other. Now what? <shoulder shrugs> We were called "Abbott and Costello" behind our backs by some of the kids, because she's a big girl and I was a beanpole. Sometimes, we were funny without even trying. Okay...mind letting us in on the joke? Finally, good ole Tracey told us the truth, and it was so much weirder than The Cold War or the end of the world. "No, you guys." Hahaahaa! "Lemme tell 'em!" What? WHAT?

"That wasn't a movie. That was the station signing off for the night." Crickets. I looked at my friend again and shook my head. I had nothing. We turned back to them. What do you mean? They, in turn, looked just as baffled. A sign-off! The station "signed off" for the night! What are you talking about?! Finally, Lisa from Rome kicked in, "Guys! GUYS! That means no more TV!" No. More. TV. What is this strange Bizarro universe? "That's it! The TV goes off the air until morning." Holy....what frigid level of hell is this?! We struggled to assimilate a place with no late night take-out, or Ralph Kramden banter with Alice. 

Suddenly, two hip girls from the 'burbs realized how far from home they were, and then our real education began. "Humbled" wasn't exactly the word for how we felt. We were almost completely cut off from the outside world, and we were alone in it. After that, we had a new nickname around campus. 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure' had officially arrived, and it was massive in its scope. Like, totally, dude. And dudettes! It was the start of a whole new era.

Lift

My Brooklyn boyfriend from Bay Ridge has always been scared of the country, though he was loathe to admit it to me when we dated, fearing a lesser stature than myself in just about everything. It was nonsensically competitive, and therefore, doomed to fail. He'd complain about the crickets being too loud for him to sleep well at my mother's house in upstate New York, which made traveling with him exceptionally laborious, as our round-trip flight on "McAir" bore out.

How would he fare out west? A family holiday found my father springing for a ski trip to New Mexico while we were in college, in accommodation of our tastes that were more sophisticated than West Bumblef-ck, Texas could provide. The people were so incredibly rude to us where they lived that we couldn't find any reasons to visit an extremely remote place that took pleasure in being a barren wasteland depressingly littered with broken farm equipment. Not even with free tickets and airfare provided.

So, one lucky Thanksgiving saw us flying pleasantly non-stop from New York with no small plane change-overs to beautiful New Mexico and the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, and what a gorgeous drive it was. The mountains were dusted with snow like a classic Christmas fable, and I thought we'd finally have the happy ending to a holiday story that had eluded us as a family since my parents bitter divorce.

The weather was perfect, too: plenty of light, powdery snow and bright southwestern sun. Until the last day of skiing. We had been doing surprisingly well for non-skiers, mastering the bunny slopes with its lower lifts that surrounded the lodge, which led us to greater heights on the very last day of our trip. Back then, lifts were small, open-air seats with one metal bar to hold onto, and the snow beneath us was strewn with poles, gloves, and hats stuck in the frozen no-man's land of the rising slope.

We'd stood at the bottom of a lift that disappeared into thick, heavy, snow clouds, wondering if it was worth it. I hated the height and the wildly careening seats blown about in the stiff winds, but we reasoned that we were here to experience this, so we might as well do it. Sure enough, my instincts proved correct once we reached the top: a deep squall of fiercely blowing drifts immediately froze our goggles, but we had to make a decision about quickly turning left or right, because the lift was swiftly moving with people skiing off.

We veered left, trying to see a sign half-covered in ice and snow, but as we started our descent, it was already too late. We were on a Black Diamond, expert-level trail covered in compacted blue ice that was impassable, and we were next to a cliff's edge.  We couldn't even skate across it with the edge of our ski blades, so we took the skis off and walked down the mountainside until we reached another lift with another lodge, and then the lights went out and the lift turned off.

Okay....now what? We went inside the abandoned lodge to think. What to do? I guess we could cross-country ski back to the main lodge and our hotel using the service road. Right? The lift operator finally told us the truth: we were seven miles outside of town, and the sun was quickly setting. Well, we thought, it might be okay....he was Mestizo and obviously unused to talking with tourists, but we were teenagers, so he offered us a ride in his old pickup truck instead. Thanks! I was psyched. This trip was over and I was done with skiing, quite possibly forever. Done. 

Of course, my passive-aggressive city boyfriend grumbled that we could have made it back on our own. "This isn't so bad! Look at how level the road is! Oh, Marie. This would've been easy!" The guide shot him a sharp look. "You don't realize how fast the temperature drops at night here." That was true, but I could already see my boyfriend stirring restlessly in his seat. He loved to argue. Yeah, but it wasn't that far....the guide began shaking his head. "You don't get it, son. Cold isn't the only thing that'll get you out here."

He lowered his window just as an orange disk of sun set behind the mountains through a silhouette of dense pines. "The wolves are telling each other we're here." As he said it, we could hear the thin, loud howl of the alpha male. "They're already tracking us, because we're in their territory. They know it's only the three of us." If you've never heard the rough barking of a pack as it runs, I don't know how to describe it to you. It was like nothing we'd ever heard before. Bart turned white, and shut up for the rest of the ride back. The lift operator continued talking with his window down, so we could hear them. "They're following us." And it was true. We heard them signalling to each other with the same speed that the truck drove on the snowy road, speeding across the mountaintops in pursuit, all the way back to the hotel.

Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers.
Happy All Saints Day.