Social media seems to be a platform that generates responses by provoking anger. If someone can’t strike the right cord that prompts such an emotion then the social media algorithm alienates and isolates a user to the point that others will not see their posts. This can be frustrating to many users including myself. Within the last several months I’ve decided to use social media less and the reason was that I started to create posts with videos that sounded angry. It seemed that I was hangry for attention because I wrote a book and I tried to promote it on my social media accounts and pages but didn’t receive much interaction. We all can be angry about anything and some can be angry about everything and its okay to be angry some times but we shouldn’t live there. Most of the time I don’t like being angry especially since I grew up having a problem with my temper. Since I overcame that in my life I decided that social media is not for me and neither is all the anger and stress that seems to live on such platforms. I rather share what’s really in my heart with you, the reader, and I promise that this post will not express any anger but instead through this post I will share love.
As a young boy on thanksgiving morning my older brother and I helped our mother with preparing the holiday dinner. My task mainly consisted of popping bread in our two slice toaster to make toast for homemade stuffing. Sometimes it seemed like a long tedious task because I would have to toast two loaves of bread. After the toast would cool I would have to break and crumble the slices and throw them in a big large pot. My brother helped my mother with the cleaning and lifting of the turkey. Once that was prepped he would help put the turkey in the oven. Whenever my mother would want to baste the turkey she called on him to help her get it out of the oven so she could baste it and then he’d put it back in for her.
The innards of the turkey boiled in water on top of the stove while my mother and I peeled and chopped the potatoes which I would sometimes rinse them for her and put them on the stove. On my way back to the kitchen table I grabbed a couple of onions from the fridge so we could dice them for the homemade stuffing. Once the innards were cooked my mother put them on a plate to let them cool a while. Afterward she would chop and dice the innards and put them in the pot with the crumbled toast and onions. Then my mother would pour the stock from the pot into the mix and my job was to stir it as she did. As I stirred she seasoned it with sage to give it the best flavor. Once that was prepped I could go into the living room and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade.
There was one year when I was eighteen and at that age we didn’t have much. Honestly, we hardly had any food for the thanksgiving holiday. Three days before thanksgiving that particular year someone knocked on our door. We didn’t expect anyone so my brother and mother jumped up to see who it was. When they opened the door I heard a man say, ” Here’s a turkey dinner for you guys with all the trimmings!” When I heard that I jumped off the couch to see who it was that had blessed us but unfortunately I wasn’t fast enough. Thirty-eight years later I still don’t know who it was. My mother placed the box on the kitchen table and started unpacking it. The first thing she pulled out was the turkey. It was a fairly good size and plenty for three people. Then she pulled out a five pound bag of potatoes, a couple of boxes of stuffing mix, a big can of jellied cranberry sauce, a big jar of gravy. There was a couple loaves of bread a jar of peanut butter and a frozen apple pie. When everything was on the table the three of us looked at it all and started to cry. I still cry when I share this story. Everything that I thought I knew about people and the world at that time of my life instantly changed. When I was eighteen I believed people didn’t care about poor folks like my family and I. I believed that right up until the mystery person showed up knocked on our door and shared some love with my family and I.
Despite having anger issues as a young person I always did have a sensitive and tender side. Even as a little boy I had a hard time saving change in my piggy bank when it came to the holidays. I’d take from my bank and tossed what little change I had into the Salvation Army kettle when we went to the store. It may have not been much but to me in my heart it felt like a million dollars. In giving what little I had as a little boy made me feel like the richest kid on earth. My parents never said anything when I donated and shared my change. Anytime after the holidays, especially during the summer, I would run with what little change that I had to the candy store to buy myself some gum or chocolate bars. My parents told me then that I didn’t know how to save money. Thinking back on it now I would agree because if I would’ve saved that change instead of buying candy then I would’ve had more to give during the holidays but I didn’t realize it then. I would’ve felt like a kazillionaire!!
This is not to sound prideful. I still believe that I’m a kazillionaire by sharing love even in this post. The stories I share are stories of love. Some posts that reflect my opinions are written from love because love is an intangible kind of tangible that can be demonstrated in numerous ways. That’s why social media isn’t for me any more because I’m not gonna play the anger algorithm card just to get attention. Sure I’ll post my blogs to my social media pages but whether others engage with my posts or not I’m no longer worried about that. Here on my blog I can just be myself. One good thing about myself is that I enjoy hearing about stories from you the reader. Please share love with me about your most memorable thanksgiving. What was thanksgiving like for you when you were a child? Were there any dishes you enjoyed making with your family? I would love to read about it in the comments below!!! Thanks for reading this post!! You are loved and appreciated!!!
Love is an intangible kind of tangible that can be demonstrated in numerous waysAlbert Icestein