Persimmon Puddin' 'n' Turkey Laigs

Artist's rendition of The First Thanksgiving

We’ve all heard the First Thanksgiving story.... “The English colonists we call Pilgrims celebrated days of thanksgiving as part of their religion. But these were days of prayer, not days of feasting.  Our national holiday really stems from the feast held in the autumn of 1621 by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag to celebrate the colony's first successful harvest.”  (Scholastic.com)

We continue that annual tradition even today, celebrating not only harvest, but taking time to realize just how much we DO have to be thankful for.  This year, more than any year I can remember, we need to pause, spend time with family, and count our many many blessings... because we DO have them.  There is always always ALWAYS something to be thankful for. 

When I was growing up, this was one of those family gatherings at Grandmother’s house that I’ve mentioned in past posts.  The men folk (Dad, Granddaddy, and Mom’s brothers) would always gather early in the morning, and as Mom and Grandmother were putting the turkey in the oven to start the preparations for a feast to end all feasts, they went out in the woods and went hunting.  I can’t remember what they were hunting for... squirrels and rabbits, most likely.  It was rare to see a deer or wild turkey in those woods back in those days.  They’d stay out there until on toward noon, and come back in.  After all, it wasn’t going to be long before the football games started.  Us kids, of course, were situated in front of the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. 

Many traditions have sprung up around a typical Thanksgiving Day around here, not least of all a feast to end all feasts, complete with all the favorite family recipes.  This was when I could always expect to get a piece of Grandmother’s persimmon puddin’... made from this year’s crop of persimmons.  There would always be Grandmother’s potato salad, and her cranberry salad.  One of my Aunts always brought her “Pink Stuff”, which was a salad with lots of fruit mixed in a whipped cream base... we just always called it “Pink Stuff”.  Everyone brought something to go with the turkey and dressing and yeast rolls that Grandmother was cooking. 

The tables were set with the “fancy china” and we had to be sure to use the “correct way to lay a table” (fork here, knife/spoon there, glass here, etc.) Food was served buffet style, and after we filled our plates, the adults would go to “The Big Table” and we would go to “The Kid’s Table”.  We always wanted to get big enough to finally be invited to “The Big Table”, but looking back on it, “The Kid’s Table” was where the fun was... laughing and giggling about something or other all the time.

Somewhere around Thanksgiving was when I remember Dad always going to at least one Turkey Shoot.  I knew it was some sort of shooting contest because Dad always spent a lot of time cleaning his guns before they began... and I knew someone was supposed to have always won a turkey, but I don’t remember Dad ever bringing one home.  It wasn’t until later that I found out it wasn’t a “real live” turkey that was to the prize, but a frozen one that someone had bought from the grocery store.

Thanksgiving in the South usually means that the weather is still pretty good some days, and while the nights are starting to get chilly sometimes, the days are usually in the 60’s and 70’s, so that meant that us kids would get shoo’d outside to play, so we’d be out from under foot for all the cooking that was going on. 

It wasn’t until later in life, when my oldest son mentioned it actually, that I realized that Thanksgiving was actually better than Christmas, in a way.  There were no gifts to worry about, no tons of decorations to get placed just so, just lots of family and friends and food.  These days, family is all over the country, having moved away over the years, but they still try to make time to come in for Thanksgiving.  Christmas is often too busy with church and family obligations to travel very far, but Thanksgiving is another thing altogether.  We get extra time off work since it’s a national holiday, so what could be better than a long weekend road trip and come home for a family gathering. 

Thanksgiving is actually a pretty unusual day, if you think about it.  It’s a day set aside to be thankful for the many blessings we’ve had over the past year... a time to reflect on what’s gone on over the past year, and take a moment to realize just how very blessed we have truly been.  In this age of hurry-hurry and instant gratification, in an age of uncertainty and change.... in this age of feeling that the world is spinning too fast and you just want to get off...  It’s good, no – it’s important and necessary, to stop...  take a deep breath, and look at all you DO have... look at your family, your friends, your loved ones (2-legged and 4-legged).  Those precious things are your blessings.  They make your life better.  They are the priceless treasures that you hold dear to your heart. 

So on this Thanksgiving Day...  take a few moments...  As the song says, “Count your many blessings, name them one by one...” !!!  YOU will be on my list.  I am grateful for each of you that read these memories.  Thank YOU!  And have a wonderful, wonder-filled Thanksgiving!!!!!!!!!  

Fresh Brewed Coffee ‘n’ a New Box of Crayons

When you think of things that smell good, I’ll bet you think of things like the smell of a meal cooking, or fresh baked cookies... or maybe even the smell of a little puppy.  No?  Maybe it’s a fresh box of crayons, or a new tub of PlayDoh, or bread fresh out of the oven?  Or, oh yeah, I’ve got it... it’s the smell of coffee brewing first thing in the morning!!  Even if you’re not a coffee drinker, that smell tells us it’s morning, and time to get moving.  We all have those special scents that affect us in some sort of way.  Coffee brewing is one of those scents for me... In fact, all the things I mentioned are among those smells that either makes me think of some “thing”, some “one”, or some “place in time”.  Growing up in the South, and being such an outdoors kid, there were smells that were part of my life, year ‘round.

In the Spring, it was the smell of flowers blooming, like hyacinths with their towering stem of pastel colored flowers, or lilacs as their drooping pastel blooms gently wave in the breeze.  The smell of fresh turned dirt told me that Dad was getting things ready in the garden for planting the tomatoes, beans, corn, cabbage, and other vegetables.  When Dad mowed the grass (or when we did, when we got older), it was both the smell of the cut grass, and the smell of the onions.... there were always wild onions in our yard.  In the evenings, I’d help Mom get the laundry off the clotheslines, and that smell... the smell of those clothes and sheets and towels... that was one of those smells that told me where I was, “when” I was, and was always a favorite... especially when you’d slip into bed at night between sheets that had just been dried on the line.  That smell!!!

In the Summer, there was the scent of honeysuckles that wound around the fences, and up posts and over bushes, wafting its scent on the summer breezes.  That’s when we knew it was time to taste the tiny drop of honeydew that could be found at the base of each flower when the bloom had just opened.  There was some finesse involved to get it though.  We had to pinch the stem end of the blossom off without breaking the stamen that went up the middle of the flower.  Then carefully, oh so carefully, slowly pull out the stamen out of the bottom.  On it, glistening in the sun like a jewel, would be a tiny drop of sweetness.  Touch the tip of your tongue to that, and it was such a sweet treat. 

When the weather changes on a Spring or Summer day, you can smell the storms coming.... something changes about the air.  The air itself, blowing in before the storm on the sudden gusts, smells different, like a mixture of dust and clean air.  The smell after a rain is “pure clean”, like the Earth and all that’s in it had been washed clean.  Even the air was clean... cleaned of all the pollen and dust and other smells from around the yard.

As the garden started coming in, with it came its own smells... the smell of tomato plants as we’d pick the ripe tomatoes off and carefully place them in a bucket or basket.  The smell of corn... as we’d cut it off the cob so we could freeze it for the winter.   The smell of fresh picked berries (strawberries and blackberries) meant that cobblers were soon to follow.  There were other smells as well... the smell of the bean vines after they’d finished bearing and were beginning to die... the smell of the dirt itself, after Dad has run the tiller or tractor through the rows to help keep the weeds at bay.  So many scents assaulted us during the summer.  It was (and is) a time of growth, blooming, and fruiting, and everything carried its scents on the wind.

A trip down to the pond brought different smells to the nose... smells of the silt and mud that covers the bottom of the pond.... the smell of the pine trees growing on the bank, and the water grasses and cattails growing at the edge.  The smell of fish, when caught, added to the smells that, even if your eyes were closed, told you that you were at the pond.   

In the Fall, there was the smell of dried leaves, gently falling in a slow cascade from the trees in the woods, or in a waterfall of leaves when the winds blew in the next storm.  There’s the smell of a garden, nearly done for the year, as plants that once grew there finally end their growing cycle.  Even the air starts to smell different as summer moves into fall, changing from flowery light smells, to something more earthy.  The smell of pumpkin pie starts to appear, as harvest begins and pumpkins ripen.  Apples and cinnamon are scents often wafting from the kitchen, as apples are harvested and either cooked, baked, dried, or frozen.  Citrus smells begin to be a part of the home, as those fruits begin appearing in grocery stores, having made their way from the orange and tangerine groves of the deep south.  These are all smells that tell us that Winter is on its way.... that it’s time to finish the harvest, prepare the ground for next Spring, and finish all the preparations for a long winter.

Winter brings the crisp smells of ice and snow... the mouth-watering smells of a Thanksgiving Feast... and the evergreen smells of Christmas.  Cinnamon, nutmeg, chocolate, vanilla, and other spices seem to permeate the house, as pies, cakes, and cookies are baked for the various celebrations.  Fires are laid in the fireplaces, the aroma of wood burning adding to the soothing, cozy smells of winter. 

It wasn’t just the seasons that brought the smells of place and time.  On a Sunday mornings, scents were everywhere, from the men and their after shaves, to the women and their perfumes, and the flowers on the altar.  Farms have their own smells, be it chickens or cows or pigs.  Wild animals often bring their smells into the nearby woods at night, and the smell of certain perfumes in a store can bring memories to mind.

Smells add to our memories of time, and place, and person.  They tell us where we are, when we are, and who we are.  We adorn ourselves with scents that we find most pleasing.  We surround ourselves with scents that remind us of “who”, or “when”, or “where”.  When we think of memories, old and new, we often think of sight and sound... but we tend to forget smell.  Yet, walk into a candle shop, and right away you’ll smell something that reminds you of something.  Smells create powerful memories.  

Lewis Thomas said, "The act of smelling something, anything, is remarkably like the act of thinking.  Immediately at the moment of perception, you can feel the mind going to work, sending the odor around from place to place, setting off complex repertories through the brain, polling one center after another for signs of recognition, for old memories and old connections."

Whatever your favorite smells are, they are guaranteed to come with some sort of memory or other.  It's through our memories that we tie together our path through Life.... the people, the places, the times.

        

Country Roads... They Take Me Home...

Red clay is the kind of dirt we have around here in a great many places.  There are some sandy areas, and grey clay dirt, but most of the area I grew up in was red clay.  It brings its own set of challenges.... when it's wet; it's like potter's clay that's almost soupy wet.  When it's dry, it can cause a cloud of dust behind a car that will swallow a tall tree.  The dust gets on everything, from the trees and yards on the side of the road, to the cars that drive up and down it. 

I can remember when Dad or Granddad would drive us somewhere; they would always go a certain speed so as to outrun the thick cloud of red dust behind us.  There was no avoiding it, but you could outrun it in a car... but you never wanted to be the car behind that car.  The problem was, the faster you went, the more dust you threw up behind the car.  Our front yard was small compared to our backyard, and it always stayed dusty from cars going up and down the road, but the house blocked it from reaching the back yard.  So after a long dry spell, even the house started having a red tinge to it on the front.  Cars were always dusty and dirty, but you didn’t let Daddy catch you “writing on the car with your finger”, or you’d end up having to wash the car.  Washing the car, when you live on a dusty dirt road, is a futile thing, and we kids were aware of the fact that our hard labor was really for nothing...  it stays clean until the very next time you'd take it anywhere.  No one had garages back then, so all the dust always settled on everything, cars in the driveway included.

Red clay is a special kind of awful when it's wet.  Gummy sorta, like wet soupy potter's clay, and a kind of red that stains anything that's anywhere close to white.  Socks were always to be sorted between those allowed to be worn when you were gonna be outside, and those to be saved for times when you wanted to look your best... like school or church.  Mom went to great pains to try and get the red dirt and mud out of white things, but it never completely worked.  All Moms were intimate with the challenges, and often shared any secrets they came up with that would rid the clothes of that red tinge.

This was the way the roads were when I was growing up.  Only the main roads into town were paved, everything else was gravel and dirt.  Today, it’s rare to find a dirt road, though there are still a few shooting off the road that goes by Mom’s house.  Some of the dirt roads that were around when Mom was growing up have long since ceased to be used, and trees and brush have swallowed them up now.  Other road beds have changed to straighten out some of the curves, or more accurately follow property lines when the old dirt roads became state property, and maintained by the state. 

The dirt roads around here were especially difficult to deal with when it rained.  The bus that took us to school came by our house from the direction that caused its door (in the mornings) to be on the other side of the road.  This meant that if it had been raining, we had to tiptoe/hop across the muck and mire of red clay, trying desperately not to get our shoes too muddy while getting on the bus.  In the afternoons, the door was on the same side of the road as the driveway, so easy-peasy to give it a quick jump and then we were safe from the mud onto the gravels of the driveway. 

Sometimes when I ride the roads around here, I imagine what it was like back before everything was paved.  Some of that I can remember for myself, but pretty much, all the roads were established by the time I came along.  Mom tells me that there was a section of the local roads near Snow Camp, NC that was called "The Old Plank Road".  It was named that for obvious reasons... there were literally planks on the road in an attempt to make it sturdier than the red clay muddy roads that are all around these parts.  But did you ever stop to think how it was that the roads got there to start with. 

I have added an appendix page to this blog for sharing some of my favorite poems and quotes, and the like.  Take a moment and go read the poem I added today called "The Crooked Path" (linked here).  The poem talks about how a calf left a trail... which was followed by wagons and horses, until one day that same crooked switchback trail was a road.  I think of this poem sometimes as I'm riding the roads around here.  It's not that far-fetched a tale to think that some of these country roads started as game trails, which were followed by the Native Americans stalking the game, and later by wagons as the area was settled by the pioneers.  It is extremely common to find out that they were mere wagon tracks for many many years before becoming a road of any sort.  The more houses that a wagon track road ran near, the more “traffic” the road saw.... and as years passed, the road became a main road used by anyone in the area.  In fact, the church that I grew up in currently faces away from the paved road that goes by it because the road, back in the 1800s, that went by the church was on the other side of the church.  When the church was first built, the church faced the road, as most churches and houses do.  Today it stands with its back to the road. 

There are two main roads into the little country village I live near.  One is fairly flat, gentle turns through lush farmland, the ground rising and falling over small hills as it winds its way through the countryside.  The other is steep hills, dipping down to cross branches and creeks with a bumpity bump then up the next steep hill, around some winding curves, and dipping down again to cross another creek.  One road seems typical of how the road crews sculpt the roadways nowadays... the other seems to be a throwback to days of yore.  I can only imagine teams of horses and oxen pulling hard to make it up those hills before it was paved, and farmers having to lay hard on the brake to make it down the next hill.  Wooden one lane bridges would have crossed those creeks... creaking and rattling as the wagon wheels slowly thump-thump-thumped their way across.  Going the few miles that we travel today in a few minutes would have been an all day trip.  But as I travel that hilly, windy road, I can almost hear the squeaking wagon wheels, the huffing of the horses and the clop-clop of their big hooves as they pulled their loads there and back again.  Life was slower back then, and dirt roads were something people were grateful for because they were better than the ruts of a wagon road.

Oddly, there’s a part of me that misses the old dirt roads.  They were not pleasant to deal with at the time, but they were a sign of a slower life... of peacefulness, when everything seemed right, and life wasn’t nearly as confusing.  The roads today even sound different... today it’s just the hum of tires on pavement... but the old country roads had gravels and the gravel on the road crunched as you drove over it.  My daughter still misses the sound of gravel crunching. 

The next time you drive through the country, turn off on some of the side roads... find an old dirt road... slow down, roll your windows down, listen to the gravel crunch.... Stop your car for a minute... Close your eyes, and breathe deep.  You just might hear the squeaking wagon wheels and the clop-clop of horses' hooves... 

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This forest path becomes a lane,

That bent, and turned, and turned again;

This crooked lane became a road,

Where many a poor horse with his load

Toiled on beneath the burning sun,

And traveled some three miles in one.

- Excerpt from "The Crooked Path, by Sam Walter Foss -