Every couple of weeks or so, someone will write in to ask about Steve. A good while back, I wrote a column about Steve, who was born in the Soviet Union. He lived in various places around the world and moved to the United States with his new wife in 1963. He got a job fixing machines in a factory, he coached his son&#8217;s baseball team, and he took his family to fireworks shows on the Fourth of July. He always loved being an American.</p><p>But he never <em>became</em> an American, at least not officially. He always wanted to, but he worked six days a week, and he always had places to go with the family, and he just never quite got around to it. Every four years, when a presidential election would come around, he would plan to go through the citizenship process. Something always came up.</p><p>Then, five years ago, after the factory had closed down, after Steve&#8217;s last son moved out of the house, he finally did it. He went to the office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. He filled out the many forms. He sent in a check for $310.</p><p>Then he got fingerprinted. He was asked a few basic civics questions. He was fingerprinted again. He was told that he would get a call. He did not get the call. Days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years. Red tape wrapped around him.</p><p>A couple of congressmen offered to help. A couple of conscientious government employees tried to move things along. But there was little movement. And when that column left off, Steve, who was all-American but not quite an American citizen, sat at a Thanksgiving table and asked his granddaughter what made her thankful.</p><p>Since then, another granddaughter has been born. Steve has joined Facebook, though he doesn&#8217;t know what it is. And, yes, he voted in his first presidential election. He was sworn in as a citizen about a year ago, and he voted early in North Carolina, and he wore his &#8220;I voted&#8221; sticker all day long. Dad was very proud.</p><p>Today is Thanksgiving, of course, and I feel certain Dad will sit at the Thanksgiving table and ask his granddaughters what makes them thankful. And then, maybe, he&#8217;ll tell them what he believes it means to be an American.</p><p>&#8226;&#8226;&#8226;</p><p>We begin Thanksgiving column XIII by thanking you for reading this space all these years. It has been more than I ever could have expected &#8212; I have people who come up to me now who say they have been reading this column since they were kids. Thank you.</p><p>We always have to be thankful here for Arthur Bryant&#8217;s burnt ends, a short end at Gates, the flattened chicken at Jack Stack, the pizza at Italian Delight, the chocolate-covered strawberries at Laura Little&#8217;s, the spaghetti and meatballs at Jasper&#8217;s, the spaghetti and chili at Dixon&#8217;s, the chips at the Salty Iguana, the fried noodles at Bo Ling&#8217;s, and the sheer joy on my daughters&#8217; faces when we go to the International House of Pancakes.</p><p>And yes, I&#8217;m also thankful for the Wii Fit, our present to ourselves this holiday season, which serves as a reminder that I shouldn&#8217;t have written such a long food paragraph.</p><p>I&#8217;m thankful for all the great quarterbacks and offenses in the Big 12, though I wonder whether baffled defenses tell part of the story. I&#8217;m thankful for Chiefs guard Brian Waters, who is playing hard football for a lost cause. I&#8217;m thankful for the emergence of Royals pitcher Zack Greinke, who went through hard times and last year was one of the best in the American League. I&#8217;m thankful for the BCS, which never fails to flop and always gives us an autumn to complain about college football&#8217;s unsatisfying finish.