Since moving to Boston in 1995, I’ve enjoyed the company of friends during Thanksgiving. This year was different. While I did receive an invitation to share the Thanksgiving day meal with the Sorella’s gang (I probably go there 100 days in the year, twice a week, every week: they know me). I decided I would go it alone this time.

The holiday break was a series of encounters with strangers, a friend from the past, and a rabbit.

First, the rabbit. A rabbit in JP. (I should write the children’s book, with the rabbit modeled, of course, on the trickster Max.) Walking down the sidewalk of Pershing Road, I had the hushed pleasure of meeting this small, calm creature. Seeing the little bun – four feet away – I went still and focused my gaze upon it. Thankfully, it did not move. Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets oil-slick and adding peculiar weight to the fallen leaves. Pershing is not a well-lit street, but the light we shared added to the quiet reverence of the moment. Alone together, we watched each other for a minute. Taking a chance on having him run, I offered a small Barry Lopez bow of acknowledgment and gratefulness. He didn’t move, so we continued our meeting. Like the local squirrels, he is probably so used to humans (and humans feeding him) that the quick dart for safety response to us has been at least partially supplemented by a wary acceptance. I would guess that we stared intently at one another for 3-4 minutes. And then, just like the end to a casual conversation with a friend, he said goodbye and took a slow-hop to the edge of the sidewalk. But he didn’t leave. He stood there for another minute, watching me watch him. I wondered where he lived. Where was he going on this damp night? Where did he sleep? Whom was he returning to? So many worlds, so close to me. But he has his life and I have mine, so off he went with another easy hop.

On Thanksgiving day I decided to make biscuits from scratch. Not having the ingredients at hand, I walked down to stop&shop. On the way there I thought about my friend Bubba. When I worked at Gutman Library in the late 90s I would see him on the corner of Brattle and Church, standing outside the grocery store that once occupied the spot. Bubba would stare straight ahead. He had small eyes and usually kept a few days growth of beard. Close to his body, he would extend his cupped-hand. He never asked for money. I don’t recall our first conversation, but I do recall that we laughed from the start. We shook hands that day. His life was not an easy one, but he did not complain – even when times took a turn for the worse, usually in winter. After a few meetings, the handshakes became hugs. He always asked about my family. We would stand on the corner and talk about Boston, Cambridge, sports, life. I have not seen him in at least 3 years. Thinking of Bubba, I discovered that Stop&Shop was closed. I headed back home. No biscuits for me. But on the way back I met Matt. He asked me if I knew where the Green Street T stop was located. Right away I knew this man was thoroughly confused. While not actively drunk at the time, he had pickled his brain over the years with booze. He was not fully in control of his body. We walked slowly. Over the course of our walk he told me again and again that he was in jp to pick-up a check from his workplace, but that it was closed that day. Recently he had celebrated his 45th birthday. “I was 44, but now I’m 45.” He looked 60. But 8 years ago he had a wife and 2 kids. When he told me this I was stunned. It was genuinely hard to imagine Matt as anything more than a homeless man with a severe alcohol problem. I wondered where his family was. Did he even know how to contact them? He never asked for money. He just wanted to get to Green Street without passing the cop station. He commented on his clean clothes and new shoes. The shoes were a little tight for his feet, but he was thankful for them. He told me that he was a “nice guy – an Irish Catholic Alcoholic.” And like so many other folks in this country he thinks the “younger” Bush is horrible. We walked and I listened. On the corner of Centre and Moraine we split. I failed him (and Bubba) that Thanksgiving day, for God knows that even from there he was going to have a helluva hard time finding the T stop. And I had nothing else to do that day. I hope those new shoes found him a warm spot these last few cold nights.

I’ve started going to Galway House. I went there on Friday night for the Lakers-Celtics game. About halfway through the game, John came in. He was a little toasted and he wanted to talk. The man to my left, Timmy, and the man to my right (I forget his name, but he has run the TV repair shop next to Ferris Wheels for 35 years. He was drinking Hennessy on the rocks with a splash of Crème de Menthe) knew him. John had apparently told Timmy that his middle initial, K, stood for Kareem. He did not alter this story over the next 2 hours. What he did do was provide verbal punctuation to just about every sentence he uttered. I asked him if he knew how to make a manhattan. This provided him the opportunity to tell a very long story about his grandmother, taking away her driver’s license, her request for a manhattan, his job, the mayor of Boston, and a few other items. Throughout this story and throughout everything else he said, John would say “bang!” “I walked out of my office – Bang – and answered the phone – Bang – I had to go meet my grandmother and tell the mayor I had to leave the meeting – Bang.” Sometimes the “bangs” came in twos or threes. We shook hands 4 times before I left. Each time he took off his glove. (As is the usual custom at Galway House, you get up to leave, put on your coat, and then drink another beer and talk for 20 more minutes.) And the Celtics got a sweet, casual win over the Lakers.

On Saturday night I went to see Gone Baby Gone. At the Stonybook T stop, I was randomly re-united with an old friend from my Div. School days. Her first name is Kerry. I have forgotten her last name. She worked at the Div. School Library in the mid to late 90s. She helped me out on a particularly horrible day in 1997, and I will always be thankful for her kindness. She gave me a great hug. We talked and waited for the train. I remembered her dog Gus. Gus had wonderful tone; our shared friend Michael Montague used Gus as his personal grand piano. As Kerry said, Gus was “a remarkable instrument.” As I got up to depart at the Chinatown stop, Kerry stood up and gave me another long hug. I hope the next week with her girlfriend’s mother in town goes quickly.

And that, along with singing to Bob Marley while pretty goosed and talking to Arturo about life and love, was my Thanksgiving break.