Wishbone Protocol and Seeing Where Your Luck Begins

Heaps of people have a bone to pick with Thanksgiving. Specifically, with turkey wishbones.

In untold amounts of households, the breaking of the wishbone either is hallowed ritual, a fast track to sibling battling, a corny rite that Uncle Meb insists upon supervising, or a best intention often forgotten in the post-feast coma. And woe to the unsuspecting in-law who tosses the gnarly bone in the trash. That only happened once, I promise.

People have been tearing apart poultry bones for thousands of years. (So, it’s not just Uncle Reggie’s idiosyncratic deal). I remember these high-spirited competitions amongst my ten siblings as a youngster as well.

In my household the ones with the longest arms usually got it, dried it, and picked a naïve younger sibling to battle against. It would all but guarantee a win and a wish. Being the second oldest, I soon learned that if one holds the thumb against the upper part of the wishbone during the break, he will get the opportunity to make a wish. As a littl’un I had a secret list readied if I were to ever win—that rare victory that I held over my older brother meant I’d have to make it count.

Watching the grandkids at the kitchen table with each of their respected pinkies wrapped around opposite sides of the bone brought the memories flooding back.

I have little doubt, still, in its wish granting potential. Even in this moment.

At 83, I can look back. And I realize that most of my wishes have come true… Foremost is the sixty-five successful years of marriage to the same woman. I have good health and there have been a reasonable number of New England Patriots wins.

It was the wishbone, or it was my grip on life—it became stronger as I grew into a man. Either way I’ll make no bones about it. I am indeed the luckiest of them all.