Editor's note: This letter was originally published on Thanksgiving Day 2017.
It is 1934, and Father, Mother and I reached New York City escaping what had become Nazi Germany. Dad took crash courses to learn English so he could get a job as a teacher.
Mom and I learned cold turkey, she through the patience of neighbors and shopkeepers. In those days you had to ask for what you wanted instead of laying it down at the checkout line. Me, they put me out to play with local kids. It was sink or swim.
When my parents passed away, my wife and I traveled to New York to sell the house and sort out their belongings. My mother had begun to save what was then the Saturday Evening Post because she loved the covers. There was a large pile of them.
There was one copy she admired the most. It was a Norman Rockwell painting showing a large seated family at a table to enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner. The mother is about to set on the table a large cooked turkey. It looked as wonderful as only Norman Rockwell could paint it.
I remember my mother saying, "Das ist ja Amerika." This is certainly America.