By
Mary Ellen Nichols
and Mas
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On each and every Thanksgiving, my Father—a simple man, cowboy and alfalfa seed farmer originally from the Montana badlands—upheld his patriarchal honor to begin our feast with a humble short-and-sweet toast. From the time I remember him playing peek-a-boo with me, until the time he played peek-a-boo with his youngest grandchild (my daughter) until his passing 19 years ago, he would proclaim the same, simple wish for all: "May there be more of us next year."
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