Child abuse. Had to be. What kind of mom runs her children outside to play while that turkey scents the whole house? Yeast rolls rise on the counter and our stomachs growl. Mom in her yellow robe, sneaks us a biscuit and sends us on our way. In our home, no breakfast was a rule on Thanksgiving. By the time 12 rolled around, we could hardly stand it. But oh, it was so worth it!
And so outside we would go, to play, or fuss, or carry in wood for the wood stove. I might stand on Joe's toes and push him backwards. We might take off to the woods where a spring trickled, looking for crawdads. We might head to the barn to play in the loft or jump out the upper doors. Dad might even join us outside to play kickball or money bat. Finally, it was time to pack up all the food, load us kids in the station wagon, and head to mamaw's house.
The memories are so sweet and so close in my mind, like yesterday I played with my brothers. Today when I see Joe, I won't stand on his toes. I will stand back and admire the man he became, one who loves the Lord. I will hug Stacy and laugh as he cuts one of his endless jokes. I will wait anxiously to see what kind of magical dish Nathaniel has prepared for turkey day this year. I will look over at my mom, busily stirring or spooning or talking with her tribe. She won't have the yellow robe on today, but she will have that same loving smile that made my childhood happy. I will look around the room at all of the new additions. My heart will remember with a smile those who have went on ahead of me. We will all squeeze in close to Skype with our soldier who is on the west coast.
Like the Pilgrims on the first Thanksgiving, I will look around the room filled with love and consider myself a very blessed American.