Thanksgiving is coming. Because of the pandemic, last year my husband and I delivered Thanksgiving dinner to 10 families and then came home to share the holiday together.  I was grateful for what we were able to do, but my house is a party-house.  And I love and have missed, the hubbub of  Thanksgiving day – getting out grandma’s china and silver, buying party favors, preparing the turkey, dressing, gravy, cranberry sauce, pies, and more, and enjoying the company of the people I adore.  This year, as we move toward normalcy, we are hosting two small get-togethers with family – all vaccinated, all boosted.  After so many months of isolation, it is a special blessing.  I hope your holiday will also be filled with the joy of family.

As I reflect on this time of year, it reminds me of Thanksgivings many years ago when my family – my parents, my brother, and myself – would join our cousins, aunt, and uncle at my grandmother’s house for the traditional feast.  We loved to be at .  .  .  .  .

Grandma’s House

Ripened now by years and care,
I climb the two-tiered crumbling stair,
Recalling those who gathered there.
Years fall away, and all repair
To Grandma’s house.

White, weeping birch we climbed at will,
While listening to the crickets trill,
In counterfeit of Jack and Jill,
Rolled pell-mell down the double hill
At Grandma’s house.

A sewing basket treasure chest
Where plain and fancy buttons rest,
A curious, inviting nest.
At “thimble-thimble” I was best,
At Grandma’s house.

The basement laundry-room raceway
We held imagined steeds at bay
‘Till “get set, go!” meant underway,
At post-time on Thanksgiving Day
At Grandma’s house.

Brown sugar lumps in endless store
From clay jars by the kitchen door,
That made our mouths cry out for more –
Prospectors seeking golden ore
At Grandma’s house.

Mounds of turkey by the slice,
Lime Ricky in a glass with ice,
And pumpkin pie, and room for twice,
And bellyaches to pay the price
At Grandma’s house.

And balding Grandpa in his chair,
And old black Nicky lying there,
Complaining low at some nightmare,
And we might pet him, if we dare
At Grandma’s house.

Our snow-haired Grandma – dumpling size,
With merry laugh and twinkling eyes,
Each apron pocket held a prize,
And leaving would elicit sighs
At Grandma’s house.

But when, at last, we struck our tents,
She searched her pocketbook for pence,
Gave us a kiss and fifty cents,
Gave an embrace and love intense,
As our reward and recompense.
I loved to be
At Grandma’s house.

Happy Thanksgiving!