Brother B. has been at the monastery for a bit longer than I have been alive. Or perhaps just a bit less time than I have been alive. Give or take lets just say 30 years. The monastery is located in the heart of some seriously beautiful Shenandoah countryside in Virginia. There is a working farm component to the land, so the sight, sounds and smells of cows were ever present during Thanksgiving and the day thereafter. Thanksgiving itself was made by Brother B.'s sister-in-law and nieces, perhaps with help from his brother and the nieces' husbands. I had 0% to do with the cooking, so I mainly filled up on cheese, enjoyed especially potent egg nog and flitted about taking so-so photographs. This sofa is the same sofa that was here when my parents and I would come up for a visit when I was younger. I recall building elaborate forts out of the cushions with another monk, and just having a grand time as a little person.