NEWS FROM THE HILLS

November days grow browner, mornings are crisper, and Thanksgiving looms very near. There is something about Thanksgiving that makes it more special than all the other holidays.

It must be the memories of that day that go all the way back to childhood; a day that was spent with loved ones long gone and places that have disappeared into the past. We roam again through fields and meadows of our childhood, bringing alive the long ago days.

There is our neighbor Myrtle Coon proudly offering a slice of her mince pie—homemade mincemeat made with finely chopped beef, raisins, molasses, apples, spices and other good things. It was a traditional dish in their family, but different to us.

We seven children are underfoot, watching Mom opening the oven door to check the progress of the roasting chickens. She had made pies and cakes the day before, while we had a heyday licking the bowls and beaters. There are a variety of pies resting on the junk room shelves—pumpkin, apple, coconut cream, and Daddy’s favorite, Mom’s special burnt sugar caramel.

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Mom shoos us older ones outside to play while she finishes preparing the food. The day is dry and fair, with a crisp breeze scattering the fallen leaves across the yard. It is the kind of a day to run and play through the waving brown fronds of the broom sage on the hill above the barn. Soon we gravitate to the barn, climbing the ladder to the loft and burrowing into the loose, fragrant hay.

Sometimes our conversations grew serious. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” we ask one another. We had plenty of daydreams then. “Well, I think I’d like to be a nurse,” states one of the girls. Actually, at that time, the main ambition a girl had was to find a good husband, marry, and produce a family.

The boys had the usual adolescent dreams. “I’m gonna be a policeman!” one of them announces, and another one comes back with, “Well, I think I’ll be a truck driver!” There was no lofty aims such as children have today, (and attain) to be a doctor, a scientist, or an astronaut.

We lay in the hay and talked about the future, never dreaming that the little red-haired boy would become a major in the Air Force, and the one with the melting brown eyes would be an airplane pilot. They are both gone, much too soon, one with Parkinson’s disease and the other with an aneurysm. My own two little blonde-haired brothers are gone also, their dreams forgotten and their lives cut short.

Soon Mom calls that dinner is ready, and the gang disperses, Alen Wayne to his home across the yard, and Coda stays to eat with us. What a feast is laid out on the red-checked oilcloth! The roast chickens are golden brown and redolent with Mom’s homemade sage dressing. Fluffy hot rolls are piled on a platter, and bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, tossed salad and Mom’s special cranberry sauce graces the table.

Our mouths water as we wait for Daddy to ask God’s blessings upon the food, our home and all of us. We are crowded around the table, jammed tight on the homemade bench behind, and eagerly waiting for Daddy’s “amen.” How very blest we were! We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were all together and happy!

Grandpa asks Mom to “fetch up some more ‘taters,” as toothlessly he eats his dinner. He has dentures, which he saves for church and social activities. There they perch in his mouth like a stranger and he doesn’t look like Grandpa. (Grandpa, I miss you yet, with the Sen-Sen in your coat pocket, mixed with lint and tobacco crumbs, that you generously shared with us kids.) You loved your food and Mom’s cooking.

Thanksgiving memories—how they gleam so brightly and pluck at our heartstrings!

Some of our Thanksgiving Day memories are different. In an earlier time, this was the traditional day to butcher hogs. I can remember a few times when Daddy picked this day for a hog killing. It was not my favorite day. It started early in the morning with Daddy building a fire under a washtub and bringing it to a boiling point. The slaughtered hog (or hogs) was placed on a sled and covered with coffee sacks (not gunny sacks.)

Oh, we hated to hear the gun crack and the hog squeal. We girls would run in the bedroom and stick our heads in a pillow with our fingers in our ears. Most of the time we’d go outside to watch the further proceedings though. Daddy would pour hot water over the coffee sacks and let it steam for awhile to soften the hair. Then he would scrape every bristle off the hog.

We watched every step of it, from the scraping to the hanging to the disemboweling. It was messy yet fascinating. We had no questions as to where our food originated.

Thanksgiving dinner was worth it, with fresh ribs and backbones that cannot be found anywhere except on the farm. Mom fixed all the trimmings, plus fresh grated horsetradish mixed with vinegar. Those were good old days and we were amply blessed.

My mind comes back to the present, and I realize that we are just as blessed today. “Forgive me Lord, if I think all of your blessings are in the past. You have been so good to us. You have provided us with the material things we need—a warm home, plenty of good food, means of transportation and clothing for our bodies.

“I realize, Lord, that these things are temporary, and only loaned to us while we are in this world. Even our loving family, who means so much to us, is not really ours—but Yours. Yet you have blessed us beyond measure in allowing us to have them now.

“Your real blessings, the permanent ones, cannot be seen or held in our hands. Your Holy Spirit, who dwells in us, leads and guides us, comforts and teaches us, is Your Perfect Gift to us. The hope of eternal life which we possess; the promise of seeing our loved ones again—these are the treasures which are in heaven. Thank you Lord for your many blessings, which go on and on.

“Lord, help us to realize what our true blessings really are.  Thank You.”