Thanksgiving Tintype
Over the river and through the woods--and back into the cobwebbed corners of the mind where are tucked the memories of Thanksgiving Days past when . . . .
Dark clouds clung to the blue-black mountains to the West, threatening the first good snowfall of the season. The dry thistles along the gravel ranch road rattled in the chill wind and streams of smoke poured forth from chimneys, to be sheered off toward foothill pastures where cows huddled--rumps to the wind--and stared forever at something, munching. Men bundled in sheepskin coats and hats with giant floppy ear lobes trudged from house to toolshed to barn with great purpose, perhaps with a bucket or pitchfork in hand.
Once the firewood or coal was in, there were no chores until after dinner for this was one day mothers wanted no one but competent older sisters “underfoot.” There was too much to do and just one way to do it. And this did not involve energized young fellows who tripped over table legs, or nothing at all, and tried to shoot imaginary baskets at imaginary hoops every time they passed under the door frame from the steamy aromatic kitchen into the dining room. And certainly not with the best china plates in hand. After all, they had once belonged to some mysterious unknown great-grandmother.
Young boys wandered on these long Thanksgiving mornings--long until the turkey finally was carved and thanks given and the clinking of silverware and passed platters began. With scuffed boots or hated clunky work shoes, they would kick rusty cans or rocks along the roadside until the can or rock skittered off into the dry weed-filled ditch.They would squeeze through the barbed-wire fences and trod the dormant alfalfa fields to one of the many ranch ponds and reservoirs, easing up behind the earthen dam and cattails to surprise the sitting ducks and, on rare occasion, some Canada geese. The frosty air erupted with flapping Mallard wings and boys raised imaginary shotguns to shoulders and went pow, pow. The ducks flew away unharmed.
It would be gray afternoon by then and one of the boy’s internal growlings would have brought his attention back to big event of the day and he would have observed: “Hey, we’d better get back.” When they got back, the boys peeled off layers of jackets and sweaters and heeded calls of “Don’t forget to wash.” At the table, mountains of bounty disappeared and even the boys groaned when offered seconds. Their eyes, of course, had been too big for their stomachs and there still was pie to come.
Mothers and sisters did dishes as the first Christmas carols came from the radio. Fathers and older sons clumped out into the onrushing night to milk cows, since they did not know it was a holiday. There was more coal and wood to be got in and ashes taken out. Supper was leftovers, but never enough stuffing. The dog slept on the linoleum next to the kitchen range, always in the way, whimpering in dog-dreamland. Boys burped and grinned--causing mothers to frown and sisters to express disgust. Finally, lights winked out and the warm glowing house sighed deeply and was still.
Outside, the first snow flakes swirled silently out of the infinite darkness.
