The Race, by Charlotte Boquist

Fall comes early in Wyoming. Usually by the middle of August you wake one morning and know that it is fall. There is a feel in the air, a smell that is fresh and crisp and you know….. It won’t be long until the night turns cold and one day very soon snow will cover the fields and the garden. This morning with the first hint of fall, you feel an urgency not fully realized in the long summer days before. You know that soon the garden’s bounty will have reached its limit.

For several weeks we have been harvesting the bounty from our garden, racing against time to “put up” our winter’s food. This morning it is green beans being picked. The bucket is brimming and you carry it to the welcome shade of the back porch where Grandma has been waiting impatiently to get started. Her age hasn’t allowed her to take part in the harvest and she misses her garden. She is happy that she is still able to be useful. You sit with her there in the cool of that protected space as the two of you spend an hour snapping the fresh green beans.

It is a pleasant time of companionship. Two generations working together toward a mutual goal. Chatting while you work, grandma passing on her knowledge and history of the family to you. It is a lovely time of communication; the two of you working together accompanied by the steady “snap, snap, snap” of the long crisp beans.

Soon the bucket is emptied and the process moves to the kitchen where the vegetables are prepared and packed into sterilized jars. The filled containers are then moved into a kettle where they are further processed in a hot water bath. This is boiling the jars and their contents for a certain amount of time, which makes the food safe for consumption for as long as a year afterward.

Day after day the process has been repeated through the hot summer. Lining the shelves of the root cellar are jars of red tomatoes, green beans, peas, and brilliant maroon beets. We’ve make pickles both sweet and dill, lovely applesauce and apple butter, rich with cinnamon. Peaches and pears have been canned and currant jelly joins the parade. Potatoes, carrots and squash are stored whole in bins in the dark, cool space.

We know that we are in a race against Jack Frost’s inevitable visit that finally ends with the first snowfall.

My Thanksgiving Flower, by Margaret (Peggy) Knorr

Today my husband brought me in a single flower from the profusely blooming camellia bush in our garden. Let me explain why that to me was such a momentous experience.

Joe, at almost 95, is in the netherworld of dementia. He pretty much lives wrapped up in himself and his own immediate needs and affairs, most of which are off balance with what we perceive as reality. His idea of thankfulness has never been very present in his psychological makeup, and at present he seems to have little or no awareness of the extent of the loving care and attention he is receiving. He is angry in moments when he realizes his entrapment and then his moods usually turn to helpless and hopelessness, but in between times his underlying sweetness often comes into play changing his behavior for a little while into child-like living.

Today, while he was wandering around the garden, he must have been awestruck when he came upon this glorious bush, covered with brilliant pink flowers. I would have loved to have heard his inner conversation. Was he drawn to the innocence of the blossoms, something like he himself, blooming for no apparent reason, or did he just have a sudden urge to pick one and bring it in to give to me? I wonder what tickled the remnants of his mind that prompted him to break a single branch and come inside the house, saying simply "I have brought you a flower. It's for you."

This may not be so full of wonder had he ever given me flowers before! He never had! He was just not that sort of a person. This was the first flower he had ever given me in all the 64 years of our marriage! My treasured thanksgiving flower speaks testaments of love and faith and thankfulness.

I wonder if he had caught the Thanksgiving energy that is circulating in our hearts at this season. Had it automatically seeped into his psyche? It sometimes seems to me that demented minds have keener sensibilities in different dimensions than those we ordinarily have. To me, that calls for us to dwell on lofty ideals. To do that has awesome power to work for good.

A post script, added at a later date:

Since writing about this happening, which lit Joe's mind with thankfulness and lifted my spirits so much, his recall of it became engulfed into the dark caverns of his unconsciousness to become yet another forever lost memory. It is now locked inside Joe's ever diminishing capacity of remembering....a sweet thing living where all the other orphaned memories reside. They call to me fervently to recreate them once again. My answer is that thankful deeds of kindness can never be forgotten. I tell them that my pen is the sacred instrument through which they shall live again.

Thanksgiving with God, By Yolanda Adele

It was 1991. Getting together with the family for Thanksgiving Dinner was not something that I was looking forward to, having lost my father, whom we called Popi, just two months earlier. Yet I felt an obligation to my mother and the rest of the family to be there to help alleviate the obvious void that was left in my parent’s home.

On holidays before my dad died the house and neighborhood had been filled with the sounds of Mexican music blasting from dad’s reel-to-reel tape-recorder. That tape recorder could play non-stop for 24 hours and sometimes did, often times to the annoyance of the neighbors, and always to the frustration of my mother, who was hard of hearing. I could hear it the minute that I turned on to their block in Huntington Park, though their house was almost at the end of the street.

Popi enjoyed having lots of activity around him, especially since my eldest daughter Yvette made him a great-grandfather, first with Jaime, born in 1986, then with Brandon who was born in 1990.

It amazed me to watch Popi interact with his great-grandchildren in a way that he never could with his own children. I came to realize that both grandparenting and great-grandparenting were God’s way of giving parents another chance to get the bonding thing right if they didn’t fare well the first time.

Jaime loved her Popi. The last time that she saw him alive she was five years old. She came with her parents to visit with Popi in his bedroom where he lay on a hospital bed. My mom called us to the kitchen to eat. I told Popi to rest and that we’d return in a bit.

After a while Jaime left the table. I got up to look for her. I went to the living room where her toys were spread out on the floor; she was not there. I checked in the bathroom; she was not there either.

I walked down the hall to my father’s bedroom. There I saw the sweetest sight. Jaime had somehow managed to squeeze through or climb over the hospital bed’s metal side guard and was lying on her side facing her Popi. They were both smiling at each other as Jaime gently stroked the top of his head.

Now the family gathered without any lively Mexican or any other kind of music playing. In fact the only sounds beside our voices were the harsh clattering of the dishes, and silverware. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this strained family gathering.

We held hands around the table and said grace. Then, with a voice like an angel, Jaime proclaimed, “Popi is so lucky. This is his first Thanksgiving with God.” Suddenly I felt all the bent up tension leave my body. A smoothing peace washed over me. Someone turned on the radio, filling the house with a joyful noise… then I knew Jaime was right.

Let's Be Thankful Every Day, by Barbara Sparks

Recently my son decided, after listening to the CD series by Anthony Robbins, that we should start our morning walks by saying things for which we are grateful.  It has been a wonderful activity for us. Though Thanksgiving is a time when we think of our blessings, it is important that we think of our blessings every day not, just one day a year.  

As Thanksgiving approaches, I think about how I celebrated Thanksgiving 12 years ago.  I went to the store to buy all the traditional items for a Thanksgiving meal.  All of my life my mother had cooked the Thanksgiving meal. However, since my mother passed away three days before Thanksgiving I was to prepare the meal for my cousins who flew in for her funeral, which was to take place on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I, of course, said, “Don’t worry.  I’ll cook the meal.” Unfortunately. on Thanksgiving Day  no one was able to cook, so we all went to Hometown Buffet instead.

I remember what my mother said a week before she died.  She said, “Barbara you have to let me go.  God has blessed me with 80 years.”  In response, I said. “God has blessed me with you for 55 years.”  I think about that time and all the other times in my life when my mother had always found the bright side of difficult situations and made me remember that in all things to be grateful.  She was a continuous inspiration to me throughout my life. 

Since my mother is no longer here to celebrate Thanksgiving with me, I now have a new Thanksgiving tradition.   Every Thanksgiving my son and I travel to Olympia, Washington where I enjoy Thanksgiving with my uncle, three cousins and their children.  It is wonderful to share the holiday with family.  We enjoy a delicious feast that is cooked by my uncle, two of my cousins and my cousin’s daughter while we share family stories.   The house is filled with the aroma of turkey, dressing, green beans, mustard and collard greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie and the sounds of laughter and love. I am so grateful to be able to enjoy this time with them.

So as we approach this wonderful time of year let’s all think about our blessings which include family and friends. Each day, remember to celebrate life and the events that bring a smile to your face.

Happy Thanksgiving

AUTUMN, by Charlene Farnsworth

When I think of autumn, I think of the magnificent “Autumn in New England” tour that my Mom and I took many years ago. That was when I felt as though I really was a New England transplant rather than a native-born Californian.

Of course, we were visiting the New England states -- Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont -- during the cool, colorful autumn as opposed to the hot, humid summer or snowy, slippery winter.

The people we met were delightful and greeted us “westerners” warmly. Their pace seemed to be less driven than ours and they took time to talk with calm demeanors, eye contact and cheerful smiles. We enjoyed their charming pronunciation of the English language, especially the “maniacs” from Maine. One tour guide was a third generation “maniac” and he gave us a lesson in speaking their language. He said, “If a word ends with an ‘r,’ take it away.” (“Car” would become “ca.”) He continued, “If a word does not end in ‘r,’ add one.” (“Saw” would become “sar.”)

It also seemed as though pretty posies peered from every window. And many of the restaurants, hotels and homes had bright red geraniums blooming profusely indoors. Many homes had harvest-colored decorations adorning their porches  corn stalks, gourds, pumpkins, etc.

At this time of year we could see the red, yellow, orange and green trees in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Many times a tree would have a combination of these colors as it progressed through the fall season.

The beauty of both the landscape and the people made for an everlasting memory of our trip to New England. Upon returning home, I wrote the following poem:


AUTUMN IN NEW ENGLAND


Fond memories that I recall

Are of New England in the fall.

Vermont, New Hampshire, coastal Maine --

Majestic scenes that never wane.

Rolling hills that stretch for miles;

Country homes that bring warm smiles.

Each within a lovely setting --

Something I’ll not be forgetting.

The colors, brightest I have seen:

Some red, some yellow, orange and green.

It is quite rare to see a fence;

The open landscape makes more sense.

And on each porch, a friendly touch;

The fall arrangements add so much.

With corn stalks and some pumpkins, too;

They certainly do welcome you.

And folks took time to stop and chat;

I always will remember that.

These memories give me a yen

To see New England once again.

AUTUMN, by Mina Anne Chudilowsky

People say that we have no seasons in Southern California. Fall colors occur in the Sierras and along Highway 395. Up the coast, you see migrating birds, Monarch butterflies traveling south, apple orchards, and pumpkin fields. We also have migrating birds  especially the Canada Geese. We have migrating grey whales, and the Monarchs pass through.

Many people have planted liquid amber trees that turn bright red, orange or yellow, and they are beautiful. They are abundant around the Lakewood Mall and City Hall. There are also many deciduous trees around. Candlewood Street is lined with huge sycamore trees and giant leaves fill the lawns and streets.

In autumn, the days grow shorter and the air is crystal clear and sharp. You can see the mountains that surround us, and the breezes that blow through refresh everything.The nights start to get colder and the flannel sheets, blankets, comforters and quilts come out and go back on the beds. The smell of wood smoke wafts through the air as people start using their fireplaces and wood burning stoves. You smell dust when you finally turn the furnace on.

The nights sparkle with stars and the harvest moon returns, and Indian summer may make an appearance. Sweaters, jackets, sweats and hats make their appearance, but the people, being Californians, hesitate to put away their shorts.

Autumn is a time of smells and tastes. Spices come to mind: oatmeal cookies baking on a cool afternoon. Or gingerbread. Or pumpkin pie. Homemade soups, stews and chili are great meals on cool evenings. You trade in cool drinks for warm drinks. Cocoa, tea and spiced cider taste so good at this time of year. And cinnamon-spiced pine cones appear in the stores to scent your house.

As the days grow shorter, you tend to burrow into your nest and remain there until the sun comes out again, and the sun seems more brilliant.

It’s fun to drive to Julian or Oak Glen to visit the orchards and get juicy, crisp apples or cider. Pears, tangerines, pomegranates and tangelos appear in the stores as do Indian corn, pumpkins, candy corn and new crop nuts.

Spiders make their presence known by their large webs. You have to wave a stick in front of you (or walk behind someone else) to prevent walking into the webs and the spiders.

People who have lived where it snows and the trees bud out in the spring and turn into magnificent colors in the fall say that we have no autumn in Southern California. We have that season too. It’s just more subtle and you have to pay attention to see and enjoy it.

Elementary School, by Nora Szechy

While I had an intense desire to learn, I hated school. I attended Goldenbridge Convent School in Dublin, Ireland. It was an all-girl school run by The Sisters of Mercy.  Some of the sisters were kind and others were mean to the point of cruelty.  We were caned if were late, if we talked, if we laughed or if we didn't know our lessons.  We were ruled by fear. 

There was no use complaining at home as my mother always sided with the nuns.  Classes were overcrowded and had an average of 50 students.  We walked to school in the rain and sat in wet clothes all day.  There was no place to hang wet coats.  The main source of heat was a small turf-burning fireplace.

The only classroom equipment was a blackboard and chalk and a holder for the chalk so that it could be used down to the very last scrap.  There were no overheads, slides or any of the modern teaching tools.  There was no cafeteria; we walked home for lunch.  There was no picture day - I have not one school picture.  There was no school nurse and there were no field trips. There was no P.E. - the walk back and forth to school four times a day gave us as much exercise as we needed.

Every class started with prayers and we had to know our catechism backwards and forwards.  We had to know The Ten Commandments, The Seven Sacraments, The Seven Deadly Sins etc. - all by heart.  Most subjects were taught through the medium of Irish. I still say my multiplication tables in Gaelic. History and geography were the worst.  How could I ever find cities and countries on the map or name events in History if I only knew the names in Gaelic? 

For handwriting we had headline copy books; nib pens and inkwells were built into our desks.  I would have enjoyed this exercise except for the fact my hands were always so cold I did a poor job and often got rapped on the knuckles.  We had a lay teacher for elocution and drawing and she was much kinder than the sisters.  We had cookery classes on Saturdays which I enjoyed very much.  We also learned sewing and knitting.

Children were required to attend school until the age of 14.  For many, that was the end of their education. Most had to leave school and find some sort of unskilled job to contribute to the support of their families. The sisters were aware of this and did their best to ensure that they left with at least a good foundation in the Three R's.

For more about Nora, click here: Nora's Website

Autumn in Washington, by Annette Skarin

She’s stolen my warmth,
Autumn with her shadows
She’s stolen the leaves
From my pondering places
She colors my lawn with darker hues.
Moody shifts draw me inward.
Decaying leaves lay a quilt
Steaming pavement hissing upward
Naked trees stand and shiver
Sipping fragrant pine cone lattes