This week, my memories take me back to Thanksgivings past.
When I was a child, my late sister, June, and her family lived about ten miles from mom and me, out in the country in a big ol’ farm house.
Our Thanksgiving days were spent there. Mom and I would arrive, probably mid-morning, so she could help June with the cooking. June’s husband, Ed, would take their four children and me out for a walk through the fields and into the woods. I don’t think we realized that his main purpose in doing that was to keep us from being underfoot during the meal prep.
It always seemed to take FOREVER to hear the words that the turkey was finally ready. The eight of us scrunched together around the kitchen table (no dining room), asked the blessing and enjoyed the meal. Dessert was June’s specialty: a homemade pecan pie.
Fast forward a few years, after I graduated high school. I began spending Thanksgivings with my boyfriend (later husband’s) family in Chesapeake. And then years later, this was taken on Marshall’s first Thanksgiving.
Motor Man and I shared Thanksgiving meals with his parents when they were still with us.
And now, Marshall joins us for Thanksgiving breakfast. Then, we just see where the day takes us.
“Forever on Thanksgiving Day, the heart will find the pathway home.”
Wilbur D. Nesbit
~These Days Of Mine~
these days of mine 