The Thanksgiving Dance

 The combination of fall and the Thanksgiving Holiday brings a flood of memories. From my front porch, I sit and look at the old homeplace otherwise known as "Granny's house." It sits, quiet and dark, with old vines that have begun to cover the porch. 

The leaves that drift from the trees have begun to carpet the yard and make the driveway disappear. The wild lemon tree with fuzzy lemons and long, sharp thorns that once stood at the end of the front walk has long been gone. The lemons were inedible, the thorns were sharp, and the tree was ugly, but for some reason, it was special to me.

Thanksgiving, at Granny's house, was a special time with a table full of food and lots of family. Of course, that wasn't much different than any Sunday meal. Granny's house was the family gathering spot for her children, grandchildren, and extended family. My memories are special about those days of long ago.

As the years passed, grandchildren grew up and married, and families began to have their own holiday celebrations. Our family was no different, and that's how this story got its name.

Bob and I worked together to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for our family. The meats (turkey and spiral cut ham) were his forte, as was baking the cornbread the night before to have it ready for the dressing on Thanksgiving Day. He also made the ambrosia and helped with mixing the dressing and carving the meats afterward.

We worked around each other, and we worked together. When I look back and remember all he did, he's missed more than ever—on holidays.

Daughter Robbie and I were sitting on the front porch, enjoying the warm sunshine, and the breeze was causing the falling leaves to drift.

"I don't know what to write about this week," I lamented. I wrote an article each week for my local newspaper.

"Mom, write about the Thanksgiving Dance," she replied.

"Thanksgiving Dance?" I questioned.

"Mom, watching you and dad in the kitchen at Thanksgiving was like watching a couple dancing. You moved around, in perfect rhythm—never getting in the way of each other. Each of you knew exactly what to do, and when."

Then she added, "None of us know how to do the Thanksgiving Dance."

Happy Thanksgiving to each of you, and I hope that you have your own Thanksgiving Dance!

(Posted each year, at Thanksgiving. The old house was torn down in 2018.)

The City Comes to the Country

 The house I live in now is on the land I love. It’s where I spent my summers growing up—at Granny’s house, about four miles from the small town of Taylorsville, in the country.

Back then, the road in front of Granny’s house wasn’t paved. After it rained, cars couldn’t get through the mud. Once the mud dried, only vehicles with high clearance could navigate the deep ruts. Now, the road is paved and even has a center line down the middle. Cars fly by as if it’s a race track!

                                                      Image by Aubrey Odom on Unsplash    

Down the road from Granny’s house is Okahay (Cohay) Creek. The concrete bridge that now crosses it replaced the boards that rattled and could be heard for miles when a car crossed the creek. When Granny heard the rattling of the old bridge, she would send whatever grandchild was there at the time running to the front door to see who was passing.

Party line telephones reached Granny’s house during her lifetime, but many other changes have happened since God took her away in 1973.

Almost two years ago, we finally gained Fiber Optic WiFi thanks to the Rural Electric Associations in our state. It’s now possible for people living in the countryside to telecommute.

Today was the best of all. We learned that WalMart, almost 20 miles away, would deliver to our house! What a joy that was!

First it’s WiFi, then WalMart delivery—what’s next—DoorDash?

I can only comment, what would Granny think? Of course, we’d first have to explain WalMart and WiFi!