During this time of the year when the air is crisp and cold, 
frosty snow lays in some spots where the ground stays the 
coldest, and brown leaves crunch beneath one's feet, I 
regularly sing the old song, "Over the River". 

It brings out the nostalgia in me, and prepares me for the 
Thanksgiving day that is soon to come. If you are in the 
neighborhood, drop in on this festive day, or call me 
(402.991.9727) to join in share in the feast. I would love to 
share our meal and conversation with you.

Peace and grace to you this week, and may you be abundantly 
blessed as we are.

With loving hearts,

Maggie, Lily, Lizzie, Silver, and all the critters in our 
pond.

The coming weeks of Thanksgiving bring excitement about the 
feast, gathering of friends, a warm and gracious home, and a 
time to reflect in gratitude of a blessed life. Inside she 
jumps with glee and enthusiasm with all the planning that 
remains to be done. She starts with a list of ingredients that 
must be picked up at the market and orders her fresh turkey 
from the local farm. So much to be done!

She recalls the Thanksgiving's spent at her grandmother's 
modest post war brick bungalow. Mumuci had a tiny home, 
probably no more than 1000 square feet, but as a child, it was 
her palace because it was Mumuci's home that had a tiny "cold 
room" filled with canned goods from her garden, smoked 
Hungarian sausages and salami, onions, and garlic. Good thing 
this cold room was in the basement because the smell was 
overwhelming.

The little boxy brown brick home had a cute little cupboard 
painted a yellowish-cream that was a pass-through to the 
outdoors. This is where the milkman would leave pints of whole 
milk in tall clear glass bottles. As a little girl, she would 
open and close the cupboard doors repeatedly throughout the 
day to see if there was any milk left by the milkman. 

Large gatherings were always downstairs around the old 
mahogany table carved with ornate leaves and blossoms. She 
loved this table because it was so old and heavy; it's deep 
rich color made meals warm and inviting. Thanksgivings were 
always best with Mumuci. Her deep love for her grandmother 
always on her heart. She wanted the rest of her family to 
follow her grandmother's candor, but that was not the way it 
was.
 
Long ago, she forgave each of her family members for their 
unprincipled behavior, and opened her heart to welcome them 
provided their choices and demeanor turned gracious minus the 
lies, hate, and bitterness they carry toward people. All but 
one chose to continue living dishonorable lifestyles. After 
decades of not speaking, her authoritative father redeemed 
himself by turning a bit softer. Still aloof, un-attentive, and 
placing himself first, at least the conversations became 
bearable so they could engage in normal conversations. He too, 
would not be at the feast because of his choice and lack of 
desire to make the effort. She shrugged it off. This has 
become the norm. Not her choice, but she accepted the fact 
that her family was not like most. By not accepting this 
situation, these circumstances could potentially rob her of 
any happiness during her lifetime. So it's best to shrug it 
off, and free herself from the contentious thoughts.

Off she drives to the market; fresh flowers, yams, golden 
potatoes, fresh deep-red cranberries, and plump oranges; she 
buys what she needs and heads home to her one true love, her 
daughter. When she arrives, she is greeted at the door by the 
little helper who is interested only in the Pecan pie. She 
finds the pie and the flowers, and her eyes shimmer as she 
squeals with enthusiasm. Mom eager to unpack her purchases 
asks for help and the little one, reluctantly agrees on the 
condition she have one sliver of that richly sweet pie. Mom 
quickly concedes and they both move about the kitchen putting 
those things where they belong, in the fridge and pantry.

The day before the feast, she prepares for the Thanksgiving 
day to come. This year, her Thanksgiving will be cold and wet, 
making the indoors seem even more sumptuous and cozy. Her 
clever and lovely daughter grateful and delighted that she 
will have a five-day holiday from school. The thought of 
sleeping in everyday makes her eyes dance with joy. Quite 
honestly, even mom is looking forward to sleeping in and 
hanging around the house lazily.

With the turkey in the roaster, homemade cranberry sauce and 
stuffing made, there are minor tasks to be done. Music softly 
echoes her favorite Bach concerto, the colorful flowers with 
their sweet fragrance decorate her home, and the table is set 
for a memorable gathering. This Thanksgiving day she will be 
with her friends and they will share in the laughter and 
chatter that brought them together to begin with. Best of all, 
she will be with her dear sweet daughter, a special gift from 
God. Her gratitude ever present toward her daughter; she tells 
her how grateful she is to God for her. "I thank God for you", 
she lovingly tells her child and kisses her forehead.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


In Britain and Canada, this poem still serves an integral 
piece to their Remembrance Day. Lest we forget.