Thanksgiving: Connections and recalibrations

For those who’ve been unaware of all the Black Friday advertisements, today is Thanksgiving. The actual day when we actually pause to give actual thought about things we might actually be grateful for.

Mostly people talk about the big things—health, security, shelter, family, jobs, etc. I’m concentrating on smaller things this week, things that might not be the most stand-in-your-face objects of gratitude.

Today I’m grateful for conversations that end up taking sharp turns because someone picks up on some element that never occurred to me might be capable of being viewed differently than from my perspective.

And of course, I’m grateful for the people who put up with those sometimes loopy conversations, who encourage them, and who take pleasure in them.

Viz.:

A few days ago I was talking with my BFF. She brought up a technical issue that occurred when she tried sharing my post about the D-Day then-and-now photos. You know—a combat photo from 6 June 1944 that morphed into a shot of the same spot taken this year.

I got a little excited, because after I’d written that post, I got some info about this particular picture of British Commandos landing at Juno Beach, from someone whose father was in No. 4 Commando, which landed on Sword Beach:

I’d asked him about the fact that several of the men in that picture do not appear to be wearing helmets. It was time-stamped 0900, and since the landings on Juno began at 0745, I was wondering if it was possible that the beach might have been cleared enough of the enemy within an hour or so that men disembarking might not have needed helmets.

He roughed out the background of the Commandos, and then mentioned that his father had been caught stealing chickens (not a petty crime when your nation is under wartime rationing) and given the choice between going to jail or “volunteering” for the Commandos. (His subsequent combat history suggests to me that he was a much better Commando than a chicken thief, which I found extremely interesting, and is probably a good outcome for everyone concerned.)

Well, so, back to my convo with my BFF. I got kind of lively when I reached the part about the type of man accepted into the Commandos, and even more lively when describing Lord Lovat, the man who put the units together and led them.

Bas Bleu: This Lovat guy was eccentric in the way that you only ever seem to find in the British army. He gave each commando the choice of whether he wanted to go ashore with or without helmet. And he had his personal piper march up and down the landing beach…

BFF: [long pause] Oh—PIPER. I was thinking ‘Piper Cub’…

BB: [pause] Oh. Yeah. Entirely different sort of eccentricity. [pause] No—guy with a set of bagpipes.

[Mutual snorts and giggles]

See, she’s into civil aviation, I’m into how people deal with combat. I was thinking, “What does it say about a commander and fighting unit that has a guy in kilts playing pibrochs and whatnots in the middle of a mechanized firefight?”; she’s thinking, “I wonder what they were doing there with a little aircraft?”

Then we both had to take a sideways glance at what we were assuming was the common ground, and recalibrate.

And, that, my children, is how we expand our knowledge base: by realizing that there are multiple perspectives on everything, and that vocabulary is contextual.

It also makes life so much richer. For which I am extremely grateful.

P.S. Lovat’s piper was a man named Bill Millan. This photo, shot on 6 June 1944, shows his back, with the tips of his pipes poking in front of his face—he’s in the foreground just to the right of the photographer. And you'll notice he's not wearing a dag-blamed helmet.

He survived 4 Commando’s campaigns and died in 2010, much loved and deeply mourned.

(The photographer focused on Lovat, who appears in the middle distance, to the right of the column of men. I can't tell whether he's wearing a helmet, but my money's on not.)

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all. Musicians, pilots, soldiers, change ringers, lawyers, statisticians, spooks, poultry-nappers, personal trainers, mothers, baristas, social workers, Movember fluffers, artists, and especially readers and friends. You enrich my life, and I'm grateful to and for every one of you.