When I was a child, we had two dogs. Honey and Rocky. And on Thanksgiving, Daddy would load them, along with his guitar, into the trunk of our ‘54 Ford. My brother and sister and I were in the back seat, dressed warm in gloves and hats and boots and our old winter coats over corduroys and flannels. I sat in the middle, with my feet on the hump. We were headed down to the country. The farm where my father was born. By the time we arrived, Grandma and Aunt Frances already had several pots boiling on the stove. Daddy would set Honey and Rocky loose and they’d take off running down the old dirt road. Mother would hold my hand and guide me around the puddles in the yard and past the pump. The wooden boards on the back porch creeked under everbody’s feet, and the screen door squeaked and squeaked until we were all in and it finally whacked shut. And Aunt Frances, wiping her greasy fingers on her apron would reach out to me with her rough hands, hold my face and laugh as she kissed me. Grandma was always covered with flour pressing me up against her. “…my baby girl!” There was always a sweetness to the way she smelled. The house was always full of old people who I didn’t really know, but they all wanted a hug and seemed delighted to see me. “Looks just like her daddy…” And Grandpa Bass in is “cadillac”…that’s what they called his wheelchair. He never gave me a hug. I was a little afraid of him. He chewed tobacco, and Mother didn’t approve. Grandpa Bass had built the house down in the country, and the barn where Uncle John kept his cows. Daddy said it would never fall down, because he didn’t use nails. The whole thing was pegged. Eventually, all the preparation was cleared off the table and the oil cloth wiped down before the they whooshed out the “good tablecloth. Sometimes, they’d let me put the silverware on the table, sometimes I could color the paper napkins for decoration; but I was too little to reach into the china cupboard, or fill the heavy glass goblets with the cool water that came from the faucet in the country. “Best water on earth!” Eventually they’d sit me on the phone book and start passing food around the table. I didn’t like the oyster dressing. I like the sage dressing. I didn’t like white meat. “Well, here, sweetheart, here’s a whole plate of dark meat. Take all you want.” One year I made a sign that said, “No pepper, please.” and hung in on the back of my chair. But I loved the biscuits and “Oh, now she’ll want some of her red stuff.” It was Aunt Frances’ home made strawberry preserves. I didn’t like the cranberry sauce, but I love the other red stuff. And the green beans and the mashed potatoes and the sweet potatoes and the corn on the cob and the jello salad and the potato salad and the apple salad. And Grandma’s noodles. My brother and sister were old enough to go out and play after the meal was finished. “Don’t go down in the bottoms!” But I was too little, so I’d go upstairs where Aunt Frances kept all her books, and I’d curl up with one in the feather bed, even if I couldn’t read all the words. There was an old Bible with wonderful pictures that I loved to look at over and over again. And the women’s voices in the kitched would echo up the stairs, until finally I’d hear Daddy singing with his guitar and I’d go downstairs again. I knew all the words to “High-ballin’ Daddy,” “In the Evenin’ by the Moonlight,” “Tie Me to Your Apron Striings,” “You Wore a Tulip,” I knew a lot of songs, but Daddy could only play a few of them on the guitar. There was a sofa and three big rocking chairs in the living room, and I’d curl up on somebody’s lap and sing along. Aunt Frances would harmonize. The rockers would creak. Honey and Rocky would lay on the linoleum by the black coal stove. They’d heard it all before. What I wouldn’t give now to hear it all again.

James, thanks for sharing…those are wonderful…enjoy the holiday!