A Thanksgiving Prayer

"I hate Thanksgiving!" I moaned.

"You don't mean that," said my husband, Joe. He threw me a worried look as I grabbed my chef's knife and pointed it in his direction before I returned to chopping the celery in front of me.



"Yes, I do." I quickly grabbed an onion in hope of blaming the saltwater running down my cheeks on something other than my lousy frame of mind. While I knew I shouldn't let it, the mailman's morning delivery of another rejection letter for an article I'd submitted to a magazine made me feel like a black cloud of failure hung over my head.

Poor Joe. I never claimed to wear a halo, but he had had to run for cover more and more lately. I wiped my dripping forehead with the back of my free hand and fanned myself. I did loathe Thanksgiving, but there was a lot more going on here than rejections and a normal hissy fit. My doctor had warned me about mood swings, hot flashes, and sporadic periods. I knew the signs. It looked as if I'd officially entered menopause. This was it. Life was over.

"I'm done with writing. I'll never get published," I moaned out loud. There, I'd admitted the fear I'd been carrying inside for months. "Fifty is too old."

Joe shook his head. "You're making too big a deal out of one rejection, the same way you're making too big a deal out of one holiday."

"You don't say. Well, if fighting crowds to shop, dragging bags stuffed with enough food to cause a hernia, and wrestling a slippery dead bird is so much fun, why don't men do it?" I bit my lip, aware that the words popping out of my mouth resembled ugly, poisonous toads.

"Some do. Ever heard of chefs?" my hubby grinned.

Joe and his logic!

"You need a break," he said. Keeping a careful eye on the position of my knife, he put his arms around me. "Go write something. I'll finish the chopping. Forget about what others want. Write for yourself. Count your blessings. Tell you what, why don't you write a special grace for tomorrow?"

"Fine," I handed him the knife, removed my apron, and fled the kitchen for my office. He wanted me to write grace? He'd get it!

"Feel better?" Joe asked when I entered the kitchen later. A mound of peeled potatoes bore witness that we'd both spent our time wisely.

"Actually, I do. I finished writing my idea of grace."

"Going to read it to me?"

"Tomorrow," I promised.

The next day I had to admit that my Thanksgiving table never looked better. The scent of that crispy brown turkey, fluffy mashed potatoes, savory stuffing, and assorted vegetables made even my mouth water. Joe clinked his spoon against his glass as everyone took their seats. "Michele's going to say grace."

Seated, I announced, "The Menopausal Woman's Thanksgiving Prayer." I stood up, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows from some of those present. "Dear God," I kept my eyes on the paper in front of me. "I'm thankful that having reached this period in life, I can now speak my mind and be considered wise, not obnoxious. I'm thankful that women my age will need bifocals to see the chin hairs that they missed plucking. I'm thankful that ninety-five percent of the stuff that I forget from here on will probably be unimportant anyway. I'm also thankful that Norman Rockwell painted his famous magazine cover with a perfect family and turkey as a model, not a rule of thumb." I smiled at Joe. "I'm also thankful for a husband who understands and loves me, even when I'm having a hard time accepting that I have to face this phase of aging. But, most of all, I'm thankful that the patience, strength, and fortitude that I've learned and developed as a young girl, wife, and mother has empowered me to never give up. Amen."

My family cheered as I sat down.

"Going to send that prayer out?" my husband whispered to me.

"Tomorrow," I replied.

And I did.

感恩祷告



　　 "我讨厌感恩节！"我呜咽着。

　　"你不是这个意思。"丈夫乔说。当我抓起厨刀对他瞄了瞄然后又继续切芹菜时他向我投来不安的眼光。

　　"我就这意思。" 我迅速抓起一个洋葱，想把自己脸上流淌着的带咸味的水迁罪于某样东西而非我糟糕的心境。虽然我知道自己不该这样，但是早班邮差送来的又一封我给杂志投稿的退稿信就象是一片失败的乌云挂在我的头顶上。

　　可怜的乔。我从没想要头戴光环，但他最近越来越频繁地寻求防卫。 我用空着的手背擦了擦湿漉漉的前额，并且朝自己扇着风。我的确讨厌感恩节，但除了被退稿和属于正常的一阵不满以外还有许多事情。我的医生告诫过我要注意情绪不稳、潮热和不规则的经期。我知道这些迹象。看来我已经正式进入更年期。就是这样。生活一去不复返了。

　　"我的写作完了。我再也出版不了什么东西了。"我哀号着。在此，我承认了数月来自己一直怀有的恐惧。"50岁太老了。"

　　乔摇摇脑袋。"一次被拒，你也太会发挥了，同样，一个节日你说得出这么多名堂。"

　　"嘿，你别说。在人群中挤着去买东西，把足以吃得胀气的那么多食物袋子拖回家，并且还要对付那只滑溜溜的死鸟，要是这一切都很有趣的话，那么男人为什么不去做呢？"我咬了咬嘴唇，意识到这些从我口中冒出来的话就象是些又丑又毒的癞蛤蟆。

　　"有些男人也做的。听说过男大厨吗？"丈夫裂开嘴笑了。

　　这是乔和他的逻辑！

　　"你需要歇会儿，"他说道。他用手臂抱住我，眼睛依然盯着我手上刀子的位置。"去写点什么吧。我来把菜切完。把别人的要求抛开，只为自己而写。多往好处想想。跟你说吧，你干吗不为明天特别写一个谢恩祷告呢？"

　　"妙哉，"我把刀递给他，摘下围裙，逃离厨房直奔办公室。他要我写个谢恩祷告？他会如愿的！

　　"觉得好点了吗？"我后来走进厨房时乔问。一堆削好的土豆可以证明我俩都刚过了段明智的时光。

　　"确实好多了。我写好了我想说的谢恩祷告。"

　　"读给我听吗？"

　　"明天吧，"我应允道。

　　第二天的感恩节餐桌，我得承认从来没有比这更诱人过。脆皮棕色火鸡的香味、蓬松的土豆泥、开胃的填塞料以及什锦蔬菜甚至连我都口水直流。当大家就座时，乔用调羹敲了敲玻璃杯。"米歇尔要做饭前祷告。"

　　入座后，我宣布道："更年期妇女的感恩祷告。"我站了起来，尽量不看在场的某些人士扬起的眉头。"亲爱的上帝，"我眼睛盯着面前的这张纸。"我对自己到了人生中的这一阶段而表示感谢，现在我能说出自己的心思，并且被人认为是智慧而不遭人讨厌。我对象我这般年纪的妇女需要双光眼镜才能看清下巴上漏拔的毛发而表示感谢。我对从此以后忘掉的东西中的95%都无足轻重而表示感谢。我还感谢诺曼•洛克威尔画的杂志封面是用完美的一家人和火鸡作原型而不是单凭经验的方法。"我微笑地看着乔。"我还感谢有一个理解我、爱我的丈夫，即便是在我难以接受不得不面对这一人生阶段的现实时，他也一如继往。然而，我最想感激的是，在我当姑娘、妻子和母亲时学会并养成的耐心、坚强和不屈这些品质，使我能够永不言弃。阿门。"

　　我坐下来时一家人向我欢呼。

　　"要把这个祷告发出去吗？"丈夫轻声问我。

　　"明天，"我回答。

　　第二天我就这么做了。

　　诺曼•洛克威尔：1894年出生在纽约，世界著名的插画家，其独特的风格影响了插画界整整一个世纪，生平作品无数，一直到晚年仍然坚持创作，1978年逝世，终年84岁。

　　洛克威尔惯用画笔来说故事。他的笔触真实细腻，饶富趣味，生动地展现了凡夫俗子的各种生活层面，技巧地反映出美国梦的理想与现实，并赋予生命独特的见解与意义。他曾经说︰"对我而言，美国人生活中的日常琐事，都是艺术性丰富的题材。男孩子在空地上扑打苍蝇，女孩在房前台阶上玩牌，老人在黄昏里漫步回家，这些景象都能撩起我的情感。"
关键字:欧美文化
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