During the holiday seasons, Thanksgiving in particular, my thoughts tend to flow toward a time when family gatherings were a given. Life seemed much simpler. Calmer. Cohesive. Perhaps, because it was.

My childhood home was perched in a tiny town, nestled peacefully within the beautiful countryside of southwest Missouri. Trees displaying their glorious colors could be seen through every window. Crisp, clean air presented that feeling of autumn. A hint of cedar might be detected, if a light breeze shifted just right. Inside the house, glorious smells would waft from the kitchen, filling each room with enticing aromas. A sensory preview of what was yet to come.

Siblings together. Stories being shared. Grandbabies napping (in spite of boisterous laughter penetrating through thin, paneled walls). Mom beaming — gloriously happy — her flock was home.

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Pausing to close my eyes. Wishing to be back in time, feeling these feels. If only for a moment.

Remembering the purest, happiest of memories envelopes my soul. Fills my heart. Wraps me in comfort. And tears. Free-flowing tears of joy. Tears of sorrow over days long passed.

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Thanksgiving Day

(any given year, 1970 thru mid 1980’s)

It wasn’t until my early teens that I began to truly appreciation the magic taking place within our tiny kitchen. Mom’s domain. As an adolescent, my focus was geared toward watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (on our not-so-big screen tv — with three channels, if the rabbit ears were angled just right). Following the parade, it was outside for me. Time to play and run, adventure through the woods and check on the animals. First, however, copious amounts of mouthwatering deliciousness must be had.

Thanksgiving mornings were all about mom’s famous, Swedish tea ring. A recipe no doubt cut from a magazine, as we were and are definitely not Swedish.

That tea ring though! Not even one bite could/would enter my mouth today, but back then… give me all that white flour, yeast, eggs, real butter, pecans, cinnamon, brown sugar and then more SUGAR! I don’t even want to know how much sugar was in that recipe. Plus the icing. Oy vey! All I care to remember: delectable filling rolled-up inside a sourdough bread-like crust creating a melt in your mouth experience of pure deliciousness. (get in my belly, please!)

It’s possible our family gathered over the holidays simply for the tea ring. Well, and the homemade cornbread dressing. Ooooh… but seriously, Momma’s corn casserole… (all that corn and celery and sour cream and CHEESE!!!). And of course, traditional green bean casserole — with extra crispy onions, for Dad. Mmmm, and the yams. Never enough yams! Definitely can’t forget a fave passed down through generations — grandma S’s cranberry salad, made with just the right amount of tart offset with a hint of orange, and yes, sugar… plus, mini marshmallows for the win. But, the true creme de la creme… dark cherry salad (thank you, Susie!) — sweet dark cherries, black cherry jello, cream cheese + other goodness, taken to another level of deee-lish! Too many side dishes to share, but lest we forget “Tom” — the never-dry, perfectly brined, generously basted, plumpest of plump… ginormous Butterball. Followed by mom’s yummy gravy, the perfect topping for (what seemed like 40-lbs of) lump-free, buttery-whipped potatoes.

And, my friends… the pies. Mom’s (gazillion) pies were aaaa-maaa-zing! She made at least one of everybody’s favorite, which basically equated to a pie per person.

I’ll admit, I might be a wee bit obsessed with (and nostalgic over) our family’s traditional feasts from Thanksgivings past. How I miss those gatherings. And all that delicious food! Half the family fun would come during late night refrigerator raids throughout the holiday weekend.

What absolute blessings those moments were… and shall always remain.

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A single time-out, catch-her-breath opportunity for Mom would happen. Eventually. When she and the dinner rolls assumed their position around the dinner table. That magical moment signaled unified thoughts by all starving humans already seated — “please, say the blessing so we can eat!” But first, at Dad’s prompting, a glass would be raised by all gathered, to share our thanks to Momma; and gratefulness for the flock being home, together. (blah, blah, blah… FOOD, people!)

Mom would slave away in the kitchen… All. Day. Long. Beginning with pre-dawn turkey preparations, continuing long into the evening hours. She wouldn’t cross her supermom-a-thon finish line until each and every serving bowl, platter, casserole dish, pot and pan was washed. Primarily by hand. Let’s face it, when you’re feeding a clan of 15+ those dishes ain’t fittin’ in the dishwasher!

(… who knew one household could have soooo many casserole dishes? similar statement also made by my husband. like mother like daughter!)

Bulky items all put away, yet, still no rest. A few deep breaths, then on to phase II — “delicates” wash cycle — the “fancy” dishes we used twice a year: mom’s hand-made china (from Japan!), uniquely shaped (and oh so pretty) glass serving dishes, and the extra-delicate, etched crystal stemware (my favorite!). All carefully hand washed, dried, and tucked back away into their perfect nesting spots — high up in the tippy-top cabinets. (those cabinets. the ones nobody can reach and only moms know what is in them!)

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May seem silly to have “special occasion” dishes, hidden away and rarely used. Decades later and no longer experiencing such traditions, I truly miss the symbolism of those “fancy” dishes. I find the remembrance of that process — the climbing up on the counters, one by one, handing each dish down to my mom or sister; then reversing these steps post dinner festivities — simply seeing and touching those dishes, to be one of my most cherished memories from our family gatherings.

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As our beautiful mother approached another sixteen+ hour turkey day (food prep, immediately followed by post-meal, disheveled carcass + kitchen disaster zone clean-up), the majority of her happily-filled family had achieved their desired food comas. Either propped up in a non-comfy, non-reclining chair, out cold on one of the two (ridiculously itchy, but sturdy) couches, or sprawled out somewhere among the patches of colorful shag carpeting. (bonus, you could choose your preferred shade and pile of shag, based upon the room: beige-y-brown, marbled red, blue with hues of teal, or a shorter, tighter weave of sage green. 70’s carpet was sooo festive!)

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I look back now and wonder what Mom might have been thinking, as she peered out over the mounds of “mess”, observing her satisfyingly-stuffed flock — snoozing off their tryptophan hangovers. Was she proud? Overcome with joy knowing her sheep were well fed, settled in for the night? Or did she wish her lazy lambs would get up off their gluttonous bums to help her in the kitchen?!

(Full disclosure, it was primarily the rams of the flock who were stretched-out… “watching football”… with their eyes closed!)

To the family’s credit (boys too!), all hands were (generally) on deck during pre-meal activities, helping in one way or another. My sisters, sis-in-law, and myself (as I became older), would help with prep as much as possible. The fact still remained, most if not all baking + T-day cooking was mastered by Mom. This was her gig! Her gracious, nurturing gift to her family. And Holy Cow! Did she know her stuff… and, have a system. When in her prime, domestic divas/kitchen goddesses of today would have had nothing on our Momma!

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After the last bit of leftovers made their way into one of a bazillion Tupperware and/or repurposed cool whip containers — (miraculously fitting inside an already over-stocked refrigerator) — and that last dish was dried and put away, Mom would sit. This time, for the night. Finally then, she too could enjoy a piece (maybe two) of her deliciously baked pies.

Mom had to be exhausted, yet would never say those words out loud, nor let any of us see her weariness. Despite needing (wanting) to literally collapse (and “let Calgon take her away”), she must have been beaming inside with great satisfaction… and pride. Another glorious holiday feast in the books. Success!

Even if such thoughts were floating through her mind, humility (and generational mindset) prevented her from sharing. She was our Mother. Days like Thanksgiving were what she lived for… caring for her family. To have her children (and their children) all together under the same roof, eating around the same table. Momma’s heart must have been overflowing with love and overwhelming delight. The rest of her body… sheer exhaustion!

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Since mid-afternoon was typically when we settled in for our Thanksgiving meal, by the time Mom “clocked-out“ from her heroine-ly long day, darkness would be well upon us. Grandkiddos were either down for the night, or bundled + buckled-up and on their way home with mommy and daddy. Once everyone with T-day travel had returned to their homes, safely, Dad would say his goodnights — leaving late-night shenanigans to the remaining flock.

Tummies having had ample time to settle, grazing wouldeth commence. One by one, containers filled with scrumptious leftovers would re-emerge from the fridge. Each lid eagerly opened to display all their glory.

Turkey Day Part Deux. Why yes, I’ll have some of everything. Again!

Mom must have been thinking how grateful she was for Chinet! (…and, her family, obviously!)

Time for another round of daiquiris, too, perhaps? Why not! Blender returned to the counter, ice maker raided, wine glasses re-retrieved from those cabinets. Mom, immobilized, her feet propped up… and the first one served.

Late night daiquiris and yummy leftovers — screamed punch-happy GAME NIGHT! (duh!)

As laughter would bellow from the kitchen, cue Dad to make an appearance. Time for his post-feast, late night baking soda fix (a cupped palm full of baking soda, straight-up, with a water chaser… blech!) This also provided an “opportunity” for him to make sure we were all doing “ok”. Our interpretation: subtle reminder to bellow a little less!

Regardless of age, kids will be kids; parents will parent!

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Over time, festive holiday gatherings became fewer and far between. Sadly, too few in total. But, the flock shall roam. Marriages happen. Children happen. Careers happen. Divorce happens. Relocations happen. Earth shattering, sorrowful loss happens. Illness happens. Change… happens. We age, evolve, oftentimes drift apart. New traditions form. Life… moves… forward.

For many glorious years, wherever Mom and Dad and “home” may have been located, those who could, gathered. Stories and laughter most assuredly bellowed, gleefully. Wonderful memories created. All to be cherished and held close — forever.

Near or far, Momma’s flock was with her — always.

Her heart was full.

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For you, Momma.

You are so dearly loved and deeply missed.
You and Mark Alan are Home, together.
Your flock is well. We are guarded.

Because of you, our hearts, too, are full.

Thank you for being my Mother — the loving, nurturing, selflessly caring, giving, strong, fierce, awe-inspiring woman who showed me the way — the woman who I pray and aspire to be.
—With All My Love

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Perhaps you can relate to my family’s holiday gathering experiences. Would love for you to share your thoughts and memories in the comments.

For anyone who may have less than ideal memories during the holidays, tender thoughts and prayers are with you. May new and joyous memories begin to fill your heart.

I hope you will join me in cherishing and giving thanks for our daily blessings. As we face and cope with difficult times, blessings may not appear clear or visible. Should you find yourself struggling this holiday season, or anytime… I hope you will reach out. Allow others to help lift you up in your time of need. Know that prayers for strength and comfort are with you.

Blessings, positive light, and love — always.

—Terry xx

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Thank you for your grace as I continue to share Short Stories, Poems, my illness + healing journey, and general thoughts about life. I am truly thankful for those who follow along, and for the opportunity to express my Reflections… and pieces from within.

Feeling forever grateful and blessed.

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