Without fail at Christmas or Thanksgiving and sometimes both, our family would make the three hour trip to my paternal Grandparents' house for a visit. My ninety-six year old Grandma still lives in that tiny, white, two-bedroom, one bath house. We would descend on the place in great hordes of grandchildren and great grandchildren, more often than not with pecan and pumpkin pies, deviled eggs, stuffing, soda, rolls and many other dishes in our arms. Grandpa's turkey and dressing was his own invention and it was delicious. My aunts could crank out pies like a pack of professionals. In fact, they were professionals. Two of them have owned thriving cafes for as long as I can remember.
We children would run in and out and play and carry on until it was time to eat. We explored the tiny rooms and told stories and played hide and seek and occasionally sang when our parents sternly urged us to do so. My brother and I tried to fit in and get along with cousins who more than likely thought we were weird because we were from the city. I must admit there was a great difference between the activities and pursuits which characterized their rural lives and the alleged inferior existence my brother and I endured. Honestly, we dreaded some aspects of the visit as a result of the obvious disdain in which we were held at times, not by all, but most certainly by some. However, when I remember Christmas and Thanksgiving, those things do not come to mind. I remember really delicious food, lots of fun with cousins and Grandpa's heart-warming prayers of Thanksgiving.
That prayer marked the beginning of an extended feast that worked more like a rotating shift. Eat until you are full. Go rest and talk, or play, in our case, until you felt like eating some more. Mark your cup, keep your plate handy and offer to go get someone else whatever they need. Good times!
And that, my friends, was the celebration on just my father's side of the family. Mom's parents held another celebration some nine or ten hours away on another day. It was equally festive and significant. And, of course, our own little family traditions were tucked in somewhere in between. But, I am tired of writing and this will have to finish itself some other time.
Cheerio.