My son said I would write about this

First, I have no idea who these people are. I was looking for Thanksgiving photos because, well, I didn't take any during our family feast. So, we have this family of strangers but at least they're waving at us.

My son, Travis, said I would write about the post-Thanksgiving day sales. He was right. Thanksgiving too. Thanksgiving takes on some meaning to the Williams footprint. We've had benchmark days that tied, at least myself, to what the holiday is suppose to be about.

When I was growing up, we never talked about the meaning of the day. I mean, we prayed over the meal, but that was about it. We went to our grandparents house and my two brothers would attempt to out eat the other. Two plates of food covered from rim to rim-impressive. Then dessert. Very impressive. We would dress up in tight clothes and eat off of good china. Grandmother was an amazing cook. I can still remember her fried chicken. Wow.

But then my parents and grandparents died off; I grew up; got married, had kids and had traditions of our own. Then, the Thanksgiving of 2000 rolled in. Two days before this Thanksgiving, we found out Joni had breast cancer.

And the prayers got real.

It was a great holiday and a terrifying holiday all at once. Conversations in the next forty-eight hours included combo platters like "Are you bringing rolls and oh, by the way, do you want to be buried or cremated if things goes south?" Weird.

Then there was the Thanksgiving of 2007 and the little boy who was ours was now a man and in the throat of the dragon that day. Travis was in Iraq, Saddam's hometown as a matter of fact. He volunteered to go out on patrol that Thanksgiving day, not necessarily so others could stay in and relax; he needed to stay busy. That was a long day for the father-"Are you bringing rolls and oh, by the way, has our son been shot today?" Again, weird.

Now, in 2009, Jessica and Matthew had Eli, a five pounder plus, on the Tuesday before, offsetting Joni's little event, but then Jessica's labs went south and sometime during the night, there was discussion of the day going really bad. But then the dawn brought a new day, and a full recovery. Weird.

Now, the Williams', some accusing Dad of starting, have a tradition of going out at pre-dawn on Friday and hitting the stores. It's funny, Dad doesn't buy anything; he just watches. The center to the American Free-Enterprise system is examined that day. All the scary people that make up the backbone to this civilization are there, buying crap that can't fit in a grocery cart, oh, and a pack of gum as well. The Williams family, working on a gift exchange program and having their gift list and dollar limit fan out and hide from each other, not wanting anyone to see what they bought. Weird.

The day is topped with breakfast at Five and Diner. A short stack, or an omelet, or some other combo platter and lots of coffee.

It's here that some of us, review the meaning of the holiday. Funny, it has nothing to do with anything advertised, purchased, traded in for, or listed. It has everything to do with those around the table and their spouses home with sleeping kids and how we survive those times when things aren't so good.

Weird? No, not really.