Yesterday, out of necessity, I set about getting the dining room slightly ready for Thanksgiving, which is about the level that I do anything – slightly. Got out the better silverware, washed it and put it out on a side table and threw a napkin over it – a cloth one, probably from Faith Methodist Rummage Sale. Looked at a couple of recipes that are easy, easy and easier . . . and set up the Pilgrim Tree.

Yes, the Pilgrim Tree. We haven’t had one for a couple of years since the little Pilgrims went missing, but I found them last summer in one of my old cigar boxes with the sliding lid. They are tiny and I will take a picture soon, but I’m not going to go traipsing in there now. Ah, the tree, I forgot to mention it is of the alpine persuasion – tall and narrow; this one is also primitive – scraggly little branches with greenery that is not so much needles as shrub-like. Obviously, I will need a picture of it to make this clear.

We set it on a table and put a mirror behind it and hung a garland of stringed gourds and scattered the pilgrims around. I snuck a tiny Santa on the back – sort of like a scout. Then we looked at it, really looked at it . . . from afar. And you know what? It leans, noticeably. I gave it a few nudges that did nothing and then pronounced it had thrived in a strong wind . . . and strong wind makes strong timber. Heck, it sounds good, and lots of times things that sound good raise my spirits.

We put some autumn things beneath it on the golden tablecloth on which it sits and called it done. I told Summer that soon we would replace the golden cloth with a green one for Christmas and redecorate the tree, and maybe I will follow through with the green. But I know I am going to feel sorry for the little Pilgrims and let them stay on the tree even when the garland changes to maybe tiny pine cones.

Then I guess it will be back into the cigar box.