He’s filled so many wonderful Thanksgiving memories
throughout
my entire childhood,
and some of my adult years…
along with a lot of his favorite choice pies that he baked–
And might I say, they were
the best!
In this picture, he’s carving a turkey,
on Thanksgiving Day.
He probably cooked two.
Idk.
So many years ago, and I’m not so sure that I got to attend the Thanksgiving when this photo was taken.
I love how my dad was,
the beautiful qualities about him.
And the times when we knocked heads,
I got to where
I appreciated
those struggles between us–
but much later on, as it does go…
I think it was on both our sides–
as parents and “the kids” grow apart and come back together again–
even beyond years that are left;
and then when there are no more years to go back home
again.
So as the years progress,
those holiday memories do mean a bit more!
What are yours?
What do you like and cherish
the most
about your Thanksgiving memories?
Here are a ‘few’ of mine:
— We raised a flock of white turkeys one year.
Some lived through the winter, some didn’t make it
for the freezing temperatures and several Kansas blizzards.
One in particular didn’t make it, for sure,
because it became our Thanksgiving main course!
It’s a good thing I didn’t make that one a pet.
Even, though,
I couldn’t sink my teeth into that meat of one of our snow-white turkeys!
I opted for the turkey from the store on my plate.
But I did have just
one bite
for my parents.
We always dressed out our chickens that we raised
in the spring months–
so watching my folks from beginning to end,
from the coop to the table,
corral and cook a turkey that I used to wish
I had let free—
I look back at that scene
and marvel at them
even though
I ironically
still feel slight agony
over the turkey.
They worked so hard,
and they cared
so much
in their provision.
I think my mom had on three layers of plaid-cotton
and wool clothing to keep warm–
all mismatched due to farm life;
and a pair of my brother’s old mud boots
clumping around in turkey dung–
with my dad hollering at her
to meet him in the right direction–
It was cold,
and it was raining.
I could not watch the beheading
lol.
I immediately felt
enormous sorrow—
remembering the blue coloring around the turkey’s eyes–
darting,
flashing looks at me–
squawking though to scream
as he flapped his wings,
“Hey, little girl, throw a shovel! Throw shovel! SHOVEL!”
“Not a rock?”
My years of empathy began
so early—
from raising
so, so many
farm animals as well as
many beloved pets through time.
— The pies were of such a variety of flavors through the years.
I think they covered
all of them,
every pie you could imagine.
The fruit pies were my folks’ favorite kind, though.
They even had a gooseberry pie on the table one year.
Dad put lemon in it,
even though gooseberries are tart.
He still sweetened it up,
but the lemon brought out a wonder.
They doctored it up with thick cream,
butter,
spices and extract;
granulated sugar,
brown sugar and cinnamon.
What people would say would not work,
my parents always set out to prove them wrong–
but not done in the attempt to show anybody up;
just that they loved what they did
to create and provide.
If there was a flop of a pie,
they immediately made one over again!
No time to waste.
I was there
every time,
fingers in dough,
listening to every word my father spoke
to me to do.
My mother would correct me;
my dad would say,
aggravatingly,
“Now, leave her alone;
let her do it, she’s got to learn how to do it herself.”
Butcher knives, included.
His Navy knives.
Mother taught me how to crimp the pie crust in perfect form,
but I felt confined.
I make them flawed and rustic,
on purpose;
but beautiful.
Practical.
[Have learned to culminate both internally,
positively.]
It evens out;
both in the training of a child.
You tend to teeter-totter
between the two.
But it turns out
fair enough.
Good enough.
Enough.
I got to enjoy my parents
in those moments,
just the three of us,
together.
They gave me that wealth,
the kind that money could never purchase.
And it was an educated
splendor.
So how did all of this happen–
— It was because of my father,
from his maternal grandmother.
It meant everything to him
to carry on traditions,
wonderful holiday memories
relived
again
and again…
Not all of the holidays come together
well
as we age,
and as families go about,
in so many
different
directions.
The memories of
sweet times,
[those priceless, precious memories]
can bring you through
a tough holiday
years later.
They are savored in those moments
for a reason.
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