A couple weeks before Halloween, I saw something scary in the window of a store.

Christmas decorations.

Inside the mercantile establishment, I traipsed past Halloween costumes, candy, and cards and found Christmas lights, candy, and wreathes.

I concluded that Thanksgiving needs a better public relations agent. I worry about Thanksgiving. I rarely see a Pilgrim anymore. The Mayflower is a moving van. There are no horns to blow at midnight while wearing a goofy cardboard hat. There are no rotten eggs to find under the couch two months after they had rolled to a better hiding place. There are no fireworks to detonate. There is no turkey flavored lutefisk. There are no presents to open.

We move from “Boo!” to “Ho-ho-ho” with very little “gobble-gobble” in between. I love Thanksgiving for precisely the reason retailers ignore it: There are no gifts (other than the company of loved ones) and few decorations other than an heirloom embroidered tablecloth, an ugly tureen with a crack in it, an experienced gravy boat, and a weird cardboard turkey.

Thanksgiving is that time of the year when we gather around a large turkey whose days of being thankful are over, admire the mountains of mashed potatoes, and contemplate an ocean of gravy. We assemble to give thanks for not only the present day but for the other 364 days of the year.

My neighbor Crandall said, “I love Thanksgiving. Last year, I shot my own turkey. You should have seen the people scatter in the meat department of that supermarket.”

The mashed potatoes tease me from the far end of the table. The passing of the plates is bewildering. Which way did they go? Don’t pass the mashed potatoes if you don’t pass the gravy right behind them. Everybody eats the same — too much.

As soon as the turkey is placed on the table, grab a drumstick. You might not like the dark meat, but you will possess a weapon you’ll need when someone tries to hog the pumpkin pie.

Don’t bring up family history involving arrests, money, affairs, who wrecked whose car, or who doesn’t make food like mother used to make.

Science says that not enough turkey tryptophan reaches the brain to have a sedative affect. So why the traditional Thanksgiving nap? The slumber may be caused by the stressful hustle and bustle of the holiday or the massive caloric intake of the year’s biggest feast. It may be a tradition to fall asleep on the couch.

Speaking of traditions, I am reminded of the old saying: You can pick your friends, but you can’t stop your Uncle Fudd from talking at full volume at the dinner table about his colonoscopy.

I am thankful for many things.

I am thankful that I am now considered a “grownup” and no longer have to sit at the wobbly table with the kids.

I am thankful that I have a loving family who accepts me the way I am and is willing to forget the way I was.

I am thankful that fighting over food is considered entertainment.

I am thankful that Sonya Thomas doesn’t sit at my table. This 105-pound woman ate a 10-pound turkey in 12 minutes in a competitive eating competition.

I am thankful that I have not lost my marvels. I still marvel at the spunk of a chickadee and the color of a sunset.

I am thankful that I do not have an appetite that would cause me to continue eating until the furniture beneath me gives way.

I am thankful that I don’t have an evil twin.

I am thankful that not all drivers are morons.

I am thankful that the world did not give me my smile because that means that the world cannot take it from me.

I am thankful for all who prepare the food. Do I cook? I brought olives one year.

Consider your reasons to be thankful. If you’re like me, you’ll find you have far more than you thought you did.

I remember the words of John F. Kennedy who said, “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”

Rudyard Kipling offered wisdom in these words, “Teach us to delight in simple things.”

I can offer some sage advice. Take that turkey and stuff it.

From all the denizens of the Batt Cave and from everyone in the neighborhood of Exit 22, we hope that your gravy will be lumpless and that serenity will be your shadow. May your Thanksgiving be filed with both thanks and giving.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.