As our beloved country, Israel, marks 76 years while waging war against Iran and its proxies Hamas, Hezbollah, and the Houthis, it is easy to give way to depression and forget the good things in our lives. I always envied the Americans celebrating their Thanksgiving holiday, which was never part of our tradition in my native Australia. Nevertheless, it always sounded wonderful to me. It originally began as a day of giving thanks for the blessing of the harvest the previous year. Pilgrims who emigrated from England in the 1620s carried the tradition with them to New England. I used to read about Macy’s parade in New York, the luscious food – turkey with cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie – and the family get-togethers, and wish that I had something similar to celebrate. 

I wonder who remembers from their childhood a series of books about Pollyanna. Even though Eleanor H. Porter published the books in America in 1913, they were still wildly popular when I was a child decades later. Pollyanna was an 11-year-old orphan who was the eternal optimist, even while living with her strict, unsmiling maiden aunt. She managed to be glad and give thanks for the most horrendous things. Little girl fans set up Glad Clubs all over the US, and even in Australia where I lived. I never joined because when Pollyanna was “glad” that she broke her leg and was given crutches instead of the doll she craved, she became just too goody-goody for me to swallow.

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