This Canadian thanksgiving we are thankful for clarity on how our country was born, the truth and not the fiction. For in this acknowledgement there exists hope for a good future, of a country healed to its real roots and thus able to grow and thrive once more.
Pumpkin pie was the star of every Canadian thanksgiving. We kept the dinner simple - sweet potatoes, bread and beans - so that there would be all the more room for dessert.
Canadian thanksgiving was a day of hugs and tickle-fights. It was a day of walks in the forest, the fall leaves announcing each footstep as if it were that of a king. There was a crispness to the air, a clarity that the cooler weather brings, a willingness to let the more earthen hues have their say.
The warm weather stretched long into October that year, a true Indian summer, or so we called those glorious summers that glided on and on. And so when thanksgiving arrived it was a warm autumnal day with crisp golden and scarlet leaves carpeting the still growing grass of the garden. Kirsty awoke slowly as one does on days with silenced alarm clocks to the aroma of Canadian pancakes being cooked by papa. She could almost taste the maple syrup already. At last, Canadian thanksgiving had arrived.
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