We woke up excited.
Our usual days were simple. Mama, Daddy, Connie and I lived in a tiny house, on a busy corner, in an un-zoned neighborhood. I don’t mean to imply we were poor; just that there were no frills in our day-to-day lives. Money went for necessities. There wasn’t any extra. And in this, we weren’t that different from our relatives. Some had a little more; some a little less. But for all of us, Thanksgiving was a day of plenty. Likely, all the children in all their houses were waking up just like us: energized and ready to go.
First, it was the start of a four-day weekend; no school and, usually, no homework. Second, or maybe this should’ve been first, we were going to Memmie’s! It’s not like we never went to Memmie’s. It just that Thanksgiving at Memmie’s farm was always special. Other visits usually involved doing chores or helping out in some way—there was always something that needed fixing, feeding, planting, harvesting, painting, moved, or mowed. After all, Memmie, who was Mama’s grandmother, was quite elderly. But, even as little kids, we knew not to bring that up. It was a sore spot, Memmie living out there all by herself. Or as good as. Aunt Lucy, younger but frailer, lived in the little house behind the big house and was almost no help. Just how much help could she be if Memmie needed someone in the night? That’s what the grownups said when they were sure neither of the sisters could hear.
Not a lick of that was on our minds that Thanksgiving morning, as we dressed for cool weather and helped load side dishes into the backseat of our car. Dad pulled down the station wagon’s tailgate, and we piled pillows and blankets into the cargo space—and the two of us climbed in with them. Once Dad closed us in, we formed pillows and blankets into makeshift seats. A big part of the fun on that journey was riding backwards and looking out the rear window. It was a special treat on a special day.
Memmie’s farm was one town over and out in the country. It seemed a long drive to us kids. We were encouraged to keep ourselves occupied with I-Spy and spotting out-of-state license plates. We also watched for the Burma Shave signs; reading them backwards was a sure bet to send us into giggles.
Our biggest hope was that we weren’t the first ones to arrive: that meant we had to “help out” instead of play. Better to be second, or even third. That way, the number of cousins reached the critical mass where parents wanted us out from under foot. Soon enough, we made enough racket that some grownup shouted, “No horseplay in the house!” This, of course, was shortly followed by the phrase we longed to hear: “You kids go outside!”
Outside was cold, but we were all dressed for it. Besides, in no time, we were playing tag, climbing trees, running back to see the chickens, or grinding seed corn in the crib. Cold? What cold? We kept up these kinds of things until, magically, it was time for lunch. Granny, Mama’s mama, would step out on the big, raised front porch and yell, “Dinnn-ER!
And the stampede began.
We all ate until we were full—and then we ate some more. There was, of course, Turkey; a huge thing, with lots of jostling to see who could get one of the giant drumsticks, usually two of the older kids. We didn’t stuff our turkeys; we ate pan-roasted dressing with giblet gravy. There were always other meats, as well; baked ham, fried chicken. As big as that turkey was, it couldn’t stretch to feed our whole tribe. Side dishes included cranberry salad and cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, deviled eggs, three-bean salad, hot biscuits, “regular” green beans (fork tender), corn-on-the-cob, and fruit salad. Plus, there were always a few surprise dishes from the more adventurous cooks.
Then, after trying to eat at least a little of everything, we, somehow, crammed in some dessert. Pecan pie was the king of the day, loaded up with layer after layer of pecan halves with just enough sugary Karo Syrup to hold ‘em together. But its court included pumpkin, apple, and cherry pies; plus various cream pies (with meringue piled high), and even some cakes. If I was lucky, someone brought a chess pie. There were a limited number of these desserts; so, you really couldn’t sample them all. We had to set priorities and go for those if we wanted to eat what tickled our palate.
In the afternoon, we all drifted into the living room where Memmie’s pot-bellied, coal burning stove held pride of place. It was way too hot for us kids in the middle of that room—plenty warm enough on the edges—so we steered clear of it unless pressed into coal loading service. Eventually, though, the lethargy of our meal began to wear off and we were once again herded outside to “run it off.” As the sun began to move down the western sky, we started to actually notice the falling temps. This was nowhere more noticeable than when we had to visit the outhouse; now, that was cold! But, at least everyone, young or old, had to make the same trek for the same reasons.
Finally, dusk crept into our day and it was time for leftovers. We streamed to the big table in the kitchen, but not with quite the gusto of lunch. We had, in fact, run off the earlier meal, but we were starting the return to our usual lives; sandwiches were enough for that supper. As darkness arrived, we were all pressed into service for the cleanup. Extra tables and chairs were loaded into car trunks, as were a portion of the leftovers; everyone left with lots of food, regardless how little or much they brought.
The two of us rejoined our backward-facing nest for the trip home; but with little to see at night, we soon fell asleep in the back of the station wagon, nestled among our blankets and pillows. My final memory of the day was of rousing a tiny bit as I was being carried from the car to the bed, feeling warmed, and filled, and loved.
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