Notes from the Shoe Box: November 2026
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My family has never been one to sit around the dinner table holding hands to sing “Kumbaya” every Thanksgiving. It’s not that we’re a bunch of cynics—we just don’t wear our emotions on our sleeves like that.
Affection for us takes the form of gifting someone a dish towel with a quippy saying embroidered on it. True example: “You can’t buy happiness—but you can buy ice cream! And that’s kind of the same thing.” My aunt gave me that one for my birthday several years ago, and it frequents the rotation of quotable dish towels I change out every so often, hanging from the handle of my oven door. It is one of several I have received from various family members.
Some families pass down heirlooms; we pass around kitchen accessories with jokes on them. Humor is a cornerstone for us, so this is apropos. My cousin Emily once said we needed to gather an oral history of sorts and title it “Memorable Meals.” We bring the food, and we bring the funny. Combined, the two result in a body of work that admittedly gets less accurate, but more entertaining, with each retelling.
One Thanksgiving (or was it Easter? Well, for our purposes here, it’s going to be Thanksgiving), I had just sat down with my plate piled high with turkey, dressing, and pineapple casserole (don’t hate: it’s a thing—a really good thing!), and I had just taken that first bite of gravy-drenched dressing when my cousin’s friend Liz said something so funny the whole table burst into laughter. But with my mouth full, I choked on my dressing, triggering a coughing fit that sent the contents of my mouth launching back out and onto my plate. That year, my plate got seconds before my stomach even got firsts.
A few years later, when she was giving the maid of honor toast at Emily’s wedding, Liz mentioned how she loved being part of our “Memorable Meals,” particularly those at Thanksgiving, and locked eyes with me, a sly grin across her face. She spared the crowd all the gruesome details I happily did not spare you from moments ago, dear reader, but to those of us at the wedding who were also gathered around that fateful table, the inside joke rang loud and clear.
Emily once tried getting us to list our gratitudes at Thanksgiving, but I don’t think we made it all the way around the table without somebody making a joke (probably me or my Aunt Vickey). It’s not as if we’re ungrateful—we just have a different way of showing it. And, for that matter, sometimes the things we’re grateful for aren’t necessarily worthy of a holiday declaration to the whole family, and that’s okay.
I am deeply grateful when “this meeting that could’ve been an email” actually is an email for once. And I’m even more grateful when the meeting that could not have been an email ends early. When the copier prints all 15 copies of a script without jamming or sounding personally offended, I am genuinely thankful. When my truck successfully gets me to school in the morning, coasting on fumes after I forgot (again) to fill up the gas tank the night before, I am truly joyful! And when my dog, Luca, paws at me to remind me he needs to go out, instead of silently doing his business in the corner of the living room, my heart swells with appreciation.
I may be noting these things in a humorous way, but I am not joking about my gratitude for them. If there’s one thing my therapist has taught me, it’s to make myself aware of all the good things in life—even the little things. Sometimes, especially the little things. I’m grateful for the air in my lungs, the roof over my head, the career that pays my bills and keeps me intellectually and emotionally fulfilled. Okay, that last one actually is a major thing worthy of declaration. My Uncle Dennis echoed my dad’s sentiment a long time ago when he said if you find a job you truly love, you’ll never work a day in your life. And I’m the living proof.
My first year of teaching was rough, to say the least. In fact, I came to refer to teaching seventh grade as the Seventh Circle of Hell. But I told my uncle that, even on the worst days in the classroom that year, it still never felt like work. That’s when he reminded me of what my dad had always told him about finding a job that evokes your passions. Now that I’m more than a solid two-thirds of my way to retirement, I don’t see myself quitting one day just because the calendar says it’s time.
So, this Thanksgiving, if Emily decides we should list the things we’re thankful for, I’ll probably say something along those lines. And maybe I’ll throw in an email-in-lieu-of-meeting just for emphasis.
But who am I kidding? We won’t do anything like that. Instead, I’ll just give her a dish towel that says, “Don’t be afraid to take whisks!” And I’ll give Vickey the one that says, “Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe.” Don’t worry—she’ll be grateful for it.
Brandon Shoemaker is the director of theatre at Texas High School, where he spends his days bringing stories to life onstage and his nights overthinking them on paper. He is also the co-host of From Art to Atoms: The Ultimate Curiosity Show, a podcast that explores everything from pop culture to science, with equal parts insight and curiosity. When he’s not directing productions or chasing deadlines, he’s likely tending to a creative project from woodworking to bonsai styling, or falling down a pop culture rabbit hole. With a deep love for humor, nostalgia, and the beautifully absurd parts of everyday life, he blends wit with heart to find meaning in the mundane.