This story is a recollection of Thanksgivings past and present told from the memories of a grown man that dates back to the tender age of an 8-years-old boy.

~A Thankful Giving~

        I remember going to my Grandparents farm for Thanksgiving every year and playing outside with all of my cousins jumping on hay bales, going fishing and hide-n-go-seek in and around the barn when it got dark.

        The delicious smells that filled their house and the holiday scents that floated on the cool crisp breeze of late November that you smelled when you got to the first step of the veranda.

        I recall how loud the screen door would slam and my parents simultaneously yelling at me. “Don’t slam the door and no running in the house.” This slowed my pace to a walk as I headed to the kitchen for a drink of water. My Gramma would smile down at me and slip me a cookie from the pocket of her apron with a wink. Then outside I ran as the screen door slammed behind me wincing I would jump off the porch and run towards the barn.

        My cousins and I were building a landing pad for when we jumped off the steep hayloft; we agreed that skydivers needed a soft cushion to fall on. If you could call hay a soft cushion…I broke my arm the following summer, which ended my jump school adventure. Just before we were ready to test the pad the dinner bell rang out and off we ran to the house to wash up for supper.

        Grampa had taught us to remove our hats, hang them on the back of the dining chair, and run a hand over your hair to try to look presentable. For some reason that gesture always stuck with me. Grampa was a tall strong man and worked hard from sun up to sun down but when it came to Gramma and manners, he was a gentle giant. We always held hands and bowed our heads in prayer while Grampa said grace.

        The table was packed with food and our large family. My Mother filled my plate first and never seemed to notice when I held my hand up to signal her to stop after the first spoonful. I knew without a doubt that I would be sitting there all day trying to finish those sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows. Ugh! I could not understand why the grown-ups liked them that way. Marshmallows were meant for hot chocolate or roasted over an open fire for s’mores and to this day, I still believe that.

        My strategy was to take small bites of the sweet potato concoction and wash it down with sweet tea holding my nose as not to smell them and to minimize their effect on my taste buds. The stuffing was one of my favorites and Gramma made it just right. When topped with gravy it looked like lava flowing down the sides of a volcano. The turkey and ham smelled and tasted like the pecan wood Grampa used in his smokehouse outback with a pile of wood stacked neatly off to one side. These were the tastes and smells of my childhood and they have always kept me grounded in the ways of family tradition.

        When my Grandparents passed away, I bought that ole farm with big dreams and plans for renovations. My wife and I made a few changes to the kitchen, both bathrooms and removed a couple of walls to combine the kitchen and dining area.

        The smokehouse is three times the size it was and I used reclaimed wood from the barn for shelving on the inside and the exterior is now metal as well its roof. I added a zip line to the hayloft to ward off any broken bones of my kids and their cousins.

        When the ten-acre property next to ours went up for sale we bought it and placed a herd of cattle on it. Awarding my family only choice meats to be served at the dinner table and slow cooked in the renovated smokehouse.

        Since mine and my wife’s parents are retired and getting up in years we built two guest houses on either side of the pond in the northern corner of the property and the four of them seem to love being close to our four kids. It is a short golf cart ride to the main house to babysit when my wife and I go to town for a romantic evening.

        Now with Thanksgiving a few days away there are last minute chores to be done, pecan wood needs to be chopped for smoking the meats and vegetables need to be harvested from the garden. After breakfast, my wife pulls out the binder that has all my Gramma’s recipes to make a list of all the things she will need for our Thanksgiving feast for me to pick up in town.

        On the long drive to town, my mind drifts back to the Thanksgivings from the past with Grampa and Gramma a thankful giving it was indeed filled with precious memories. My wish is that one day my grandkids will love this old house, cherish the tastes and smells as much as I did and pass it on to their children.

        Oh and did I mention, we kept the screen door, just for grins!

        On Thanksgiving Day from my easy chair, I smile when the kids come running in the house with all their cousins and the screen door slams. “Don’t slam the door and no running in the house.” I shout, and the smile turns into laughter as I hear my wife echo the same phrase from the kitchen.

        And on it goes from one generation to another our roots run deep in the family traditions that are steeped in love.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y’all~

Works of Karen McKeever© 2016

Photo Source ~ Google Images