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When we were young, my parents often took us to Squaw Island at the north end of Canandaigua Lake. There we enjoyed a day of swimming, picnicking, snorkeling, "exploring" and searching for "hidden treasures." It was not unusual for us to head out late in the fall, when it was even too cold to swim, and so it was on one Thanksgiving Day. We pulled up in our little outboard motorboat, and dragged it onto the sandbar that points back to the canal and boat launch. We cuddled up on the then-sandy beach, wrapped up in a blanket — three little girls, and mom and dad. (My brother hadn't yet been born.) Mom brought out the cooler that held our Thanksgiving dinner and opened the top. Reaching deep, she pulled out a plate for each of us, and handed them out, with great ceremony. Each held a few kernels of dry corn and not much else. We were dumbstruck. Mom was always the picnic queen. What was happening? Then came the life l esson that resonated for decade