“The tables have turned in so many ways and this will be the last time I have everybody over for Thanksgiving dinner,” I had said earlier this fall to my two daughters-in-law, Gail and Binnie Jo.
“You’ve said this for as many years as I can remember,” Binnie Jo answered. “And I’ve been in this family for over 20 years.”
“I’ve been a Boggan longer than you, and I was hearing it back then,” Gail reminded me.
I jerked my chin down, and put a long-suffering look on my face. “Well, I guess I can go through with it one more time.”
I was a little unhappy at first thinking that I had once again committed to the holiday, but things usually work for the good I told myself. And as it turned out, our crowd would be smaller than usual; around 18. Last year, even though it was my first Thanksgiving since husband Willard passed away we had more than 30 at the tables. Compared to that, this November would be a piece of pumpkin pie, I reasoned, and began preparing for the day.
Going through turkey decorations I came across old movies, slides and photos of our family on trips and holidays. Husband Willard always took pleasure showing these on special days. Now it’s too painful, many of our dear ones are gone so I put them away; maybe somebody else, some other year.
For now, three tables were set up with china, crystal, and brass tableware, lap trays placed on a kitchen counter, and blankets spread on the floor in front of the TV for the children.
But as usual, things didn’t go exactly as planned.
The day before Thanksgiving, my electric smoker blew out its last aromatic puff. There was time to take care of things, though. I ran out, bought a new one, (on sale) and put a whole turkey, turkey breast and a ham on to cook, then went to bed.
For some reason I woke up about three o’clock in the morning and a little voice told me to check the new slow smoker. The directions hadn’t been followed correctly; the smoker hadn’t been turned on. So I brought the turkeys and ham in the house and put them in the upper oven.
Just at sunrise, before things moved into full swing I got up, turned on the bottom oven and began baking cornbread dressing, marshmallows and sweet taters, and pecan pies.
A short while later, decked out in my decorative gobbler clothes, as always I walked my two dogs, beginning with my old lady, June Cleaver.
It was cold this morning, June is not well so hers would be a short slow stroll.
November comes on the edge of winter, so for entertainment, I step on dried acorn shells littering the ground, the smart slapping sounds they make seems to help keep June awake and moving.
Back at the house, business picks up; it’s wild child Roo’s turn. This will be a mile-long, brisk trek. Once Roo settles down somewhat from her fast sniff and wet routine I begin the four finger prayer I recite every morning of: Praise, Redemption, All Others, Yourself.
First, I thank God for our country, for soldiers and those who protect us, for family and loyal friends, and for church.
Second, there is a prayer for Redemption. For this troubled world, our loved ones and others. I pray for healing for the sick, for family and friends.
Then I come to the third finger. All Others. Thoughts filled my head, of incurable illness, the cruelty of man to man, of all the tragedies that have happened in our country and the world in recent months, of suffering humanity all over this earth.
And last, Myself, for strength, kindness, and grace.
When Roo and I returned from our walk, and stepped into the warmth of the house, I was greeted with, not the usual delectable aromas, but the scorched odor of sizzling food. Without meaning to, I had set the bottom oven on 500 degrees. So, we would have an overcooked Thanksgiving dinner.
The telephone rang as I was lifting burned sweet potatoes from the oven. It was a call from David Dunbar, a young man whom I have known all his life. As soon as he spoke his name, “This is David,” a feeling of sadness engulfed me. I knew the words, even before he said, “Mom passed away this morning.”
“She’s gone,” I whispered, dropping my head into my hands. My oldest friend Ann Hand Dunbar and I had lived one house down from each other on Eagle Avenue since we were five years old. We were just months apart in age. Ann was talented and creative in so many ways. She was petite and pretty, an artist, a decorator, and an actress, performing at the Little Theater of Jackson. I was the friend with big feet and scabs on my knees - but she loved me anyhow.
“My dearest, forever friend is gone,” I breathed when I hung up the phone.
In just a matter of minutes, the doorbell rings. The Thanksgiving crowd is at the door and now it’s over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go. It was time to gird my loins, to mix and mingle, bless and eat. It was a time to reflect and remember that Thanksgiving is not just a day of parades, Ole Miss/State football games, and bountiful dinners. It is a special day to be with people we love, to rejoice and be thankful for all the blessings that have come our way throughout the years. On this Thanksgiving, in spite of burned food and feeling the loss of loved ones, the day and the celebration went fine.
After everyone left, as I often do on holidays I felt a need to reminisce. I took a deep breath and sat down with June Cleaver at my feet. There were empty chairs at the tables, but in so many ways Willard is with me. My dear husband loved family gatherings.
In my mind’s eye I see my girls, Pat, Tootie, and Brent. I raise my hands and with tears on my face, once again give them and now my sweet friend Ann, to God. “Hold them in your arms.”
