11/21/2011
Thanksgiving can serve as a catalyst to bring out the best in people. It serves as a reminder of the many reasons we have to count our blessings. All over the blog-o-sphere there are articles which proclaim the thanks of their particular blogger. I’ve read a few which caused me to reflect upon my own reasons for thanks (a list which could go on and on). While we often find ourselves focusing on what’s not going our way, Thanksgiving allows us to take a break from the negative and experience the positive.
I considered adding my own list and sending it sailing upon the web winds, but I finally opted for a different approach. Thanksgiving for me conjures memories; memories which often lead me down the dusty lanes of my mind, branching off and taking me to places I’ve sometimes forgotten existed. It is this trail of thought I travel today.
Any visit to my grandparents’ home was an adventure. When we were young and far from family, a trip to Kentucky was a special occasion. Certainly, there were times when we didn’t find it to be as adventurous as others. When Dad went out on maneuvers and we were forced to be there for months at a time, the special would seem to fade a little and we’d find it to be rather ordinary, but given time away once again, the specialness returned.
Thanksgiving and Christmas offered even greater opportunities, since we’d often share the space with our cousins. Most of the time, we created our adventures well with each other, but there were those occasional moments when we had simply experienced enough of each other.
I recently spent a few hours with one of my cousins reminiscing on our favorite parts of childhood visits to Kentucky. There were so many memories which came to the surface through our conversation; little things, like drinking coffee from a Dixie cup out on the front steps with my grandfather, my Uncle Gert, and Preacher Gooch (of course, our coffee was heavily diluted and laced with sugar and cream). We talked of catching fireflies (lightning bugs if you were from the hills), putting peanuts in our Coke (I still indulge from time to time), eating homemade biscuits with butter and molasses (there’s a trick to doing this one right), going down to the Company Store for ice cream (usually Creamsicles, Fudgesicles, or an ice cream sandwich), walking down to the bridge to watch the creek, and Aunt Creedy’s hose rolled down to her ankles (right above her knitted slippers).
Generally my grandmother’s spotless kitchen was off limits to childhood activity any time she was cooking, but especially so at Thanksgiving. We’d be shooed away with warnings of the dangers of the pressure cooker which steamed and whistled while it did its number on her dried shuck beans. If you have never heard of shuck beans, you’ve probably missed out on one of the most delicious sensations you could ever experience. I’ll not try to add to your culture by explaining them; I’ll save the explanation and allow your curiosity to lead you to Google. Shuck beans were part of both our Thanksgiving and Christmas meal, a tradition which has been difficult to uphold since moving so far from those Kentucky hills, but we’ve managed to keep it alive with the help of summer gardens or relatives.
Okay, call us Rednecks, Hillbillies, or whatever you want, but I can remember at least a few years when roasted squirrel could be found on the table as well (fortunately the squirrel never displaced the turkey from the meal). That portion of the meal has not necessarily been missed by this particular family member, but don’t jump to conclusions or create stereotypes; my grandma ran a tight ship. Though an occasional squirrel might make it into the oven, the cornucopia of vittles scattered across the table were heavenly and made from scratch (sweet potatoes, pecan pies, carrot cake, turkey gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and shuck beans).
Though not necessarily a portal to Narnia as was the one discovered by the Pevensie’s, my grandmother, had her own version of a magical wardrobe – referred to as a chiffarobe. It was supposed to be off limits, but we snuck into it at every opportunity. It had a wonderful skeleton key, which made it even more attractive to us. How that key survived so many years without getting lost is a mystery of its own. The refrigerator was called a Frigidaire no matter what brand it was. The bedroom doors all had glass door knobs and she had a sterling silver tea set which was the centerpiece of the buffet table. Her hardwood floors were polished to a gloss.
My grandfather’s domain was outside the house where he gardened and tinkered. Though his was always clean, the unfinished basement often became a dungeon or a hideaway for childhood imaginations. He was a coal miner, so there were all sorts of gadgets and tools to gather our curiosity. One coveted gadget was the light which fastened to his helmet. The only place inside the house he claimed was his chair which sat facing the television and where an amazing smoking stand stood nearby. The smoking stand served as strictly ornamental after he stopped smoking. It was at that time when a drawer in the kitchen was designated to be filled with Juicy Fruit and Wrigley’s gum of which there would always be a plentiful supply. The same drawer held the small packets of Planter’s peanuts which we used in our little glass bottles of Coca Cola. The television was black and white long after color was available and Hee Haw was the second most viewed show just after Walter Cronkite’s evening news.
A small white church stood across the street from my grandparent’s house and the creek flowed directly behind the church. Preacher Gooch often allowed us access to the church building for our adventures. The creaking wood floors, echoing sanctuary, and the stained glass windows all added to our imaginative wanderings.
Upon the canvas of my mind, I can still picture that house and those places around it, nestled between the hills of Kentucky. A few years ago we took the trip back to attend my grandmother’s funeral. After nearly thirty years, the passing of time and people had little change upon the places I remembered. In fact, it had remained so virtually unchanged that seeing it brought back even more memories.
All of those little slivers of time have melted into memories which have become a part of me, influenced who I am, and enhanced my value system (sorry, those influences don’t happen to include knitted slippers). They have become treasures I can save and share with a family member. They can carry me away as distractions from a busy world. They weave their way into stories and allow me to connect with a character.
So while I can offer up a gazillion reasons to be thankful at this time of year, I think one of the blessings I cherish most are those memories of holidays in the hills. I hope your Thanksgiving and the Christmas holiday to follow brings you wonderful memories as well. May you count your blessings and share with your families. Perhaps you will follow your own dusty trail and remember those things which mean the most to you; those things which have shaped who you are and what you value.
