Family friends Ronnie and Frances (at left and right), my mother, Rachel, and me, 1976.

We were typecast. My sister Rachel–she of sunshine and light–was always the pilgrim, newly arrived in a wild land and looking for warm food. I was the Indian, with a penchant for fringe and accessorizing, who just happened to have an outdoor repast of turkey and corn set for guests. It’s a reductive rendition of history they serve when you’re 9, but the idea is an awfully nice one: welcome others and share your bounty.

Over the years, the pilgrims have come from all over; and when they get here, they become a part of the native tribe. I know–it’s a reductive rendition of history. But it’s a nice one.

Happy Thanksgiving–whatever kind of American you are.