Thanksgiving Day always began early for the Patrick family. It was a tradition for the entire family to attend the morning Mass at St. Columbkille where we gave thanks — as a family — for our blessings. After that, we headed back to our flat and got to work making our feast something to remember for eons to come.

One year, since there were still a couple of hours before dinner, and since Danny and I had been informed — for the 700th time, and by at least two of our brothers — that we were underfoot, he and I decided to wander over to the Tracys’ house. Their home also served as the parsonage for the tiny Presbyterian church. Din, Danny’s best friend and the Tracys’ only son, was always glad to see us, and we always felt welcome in this family just as Din was in ours.

The Tracy family had already eaten their Thanksgiving feast when we arrived, and the table was littered with the plates and dishes of a successful dinner. The turkey still had a good share of meat on the carcass, and Din was speculating how long it would be before his father would remove the wishbone.

“Who gets to break it?” Danny asked. In our family we drew matchsticks that had been cut to different lengths to see who had the honors. “Denis and Rose will get to do it this year,” Reverend Tracy grinned, “because my lovely wife and I got to do it last year!” That made sense. With only the four of them, they didn’t have to invent a complicated ritual like ours. We watched as Reverend Tracy carefully cut the wishbone out of the bird and then, using the tip of a very sharp carving knife, scraped the remnants of meat from the bone.

He then put the bone on a small pan and put the whole thing in the still-warm oven where it would dry out for several hours. A dry wishbone would snap cleanly, and there would be no doubt as to whose wish would be granted first.

“You know, boys,” Reverend Tracy said, looking at Danny and me, “you have arrived just in time to join us in our special Thanksgiving prayer.”