Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Unlike other holidays, it is remarkably free of hype — no gift exchanges, no particular religious significance, no special sales in the stores, no decorations. And it’s more than a feast. It’s a day when we are asked to be as thankful as it is possible for us to be for whatever we have. Communities across this country go to great lengths to provide turkey dinners and companionship to solitary senior citizens, to the homeless, to pretty much anyone in need.
To be sure, I’ve been fortunate. Growing up, my Thanksgivings were full of the four F’s: family, friends, food and, of course, football. But my Thanksgiving of November 1968 was very different.
It was my first year as a Peace Corps volunteer teacher in the Marshall Islands, where there was no Thanksgiving holiday. We worked that day like any other Thursday. Most of the 44 people in my contingent of teacher-volunteers, all recent college graduates, were already at their schools on the far-flung outer islands and atolls of the Marshall Islands, but a few of us were stationed in Majuro, the government center.
Two teacher-volunteers — a married couple named John and Jane — were still waiting for a ship to take them to the most remote of all the inhabited Marshallese atolls, Ujelang. (That is where the people of the Enewetok atoll had been relocated prior to the atomic and hydrogen bomb tests of the late 1940s and early 1950s.)