Both Paul and I have been under the weather.
We have heavy colds, aches and pains. Lack of sleep is a problem. We cough and talk too much.
This dizzy blonde sounds like the American actress, Tallulah Bankhead. Her raspy voice could sink a thousand ships and send the sailors to shore.
Paul thinks I should keep it. Imagine that!
I know poor little Tootie Mae is tired of the mood around her. I know if that little Doxie could talk, she would say, "Get over it!"
As it is, we depend on her expressive eyes and undivided attention to cheer us up, and it works.
We did enjoy a shopping trip to Kroger. I will cook a Butterball turkey with all of the trimmings. We will eat everything the doctors tell us is not healthy and some things that would meet with approval.
Since Paul is slightly underweight, I am at an acceptable weight and the intake will be in moderation, truth is, I am bringing out my Noritake China, silver service and "Bed and Bath" festive table linens.
We will pause to be thankful for all we have received in blessings in our lives and reflect on Thanksgiving past.
The feats will be over by the time you read this.
Preparing for the holiday was always a huge undertaking when I was a kid. Dad raised several breeds of turkeys, ducks, chickens, pheasants and more. The orders started coming in for dressed poultry shortly after Halloween and continued through New Year's Eve.
Dad even received orders for wild game in season.
We picked feathers and pins until our fingers were sore, without complaint, a part of the butchering process from the free range or field to the customer's hands.
We then carried our worth a bit farther and helped mom bring our feast to the table.
Our father raised a huge crop of pumpkins. We processed the pumpkins and other types of squash that failed to sell on site or at the local stores for our own personal use for Thanksgiving and beyond.
Mom's pies were always worth that effort.
Another thing that made it work for me is I loved to whittle or pare, if you will.
We gathered the seeds from the stringy pulp and placed them on newspaper to thoroughly dry and store for the next planting season.
Our little family lived mostly off the land and shared unselfishly with others.
Dad practiced on the teachings of his father. The Scotsman blessed with a green thumb, in his own right, reaped bountiful harvests. Helping him rewarded us with much more than a seasonal harvest.
After the best pumpkins were set aside for canning and freshly baked pies, our mom would call upon one or two of us to go to the root cellar beneath the house.
Sometimes, the job was to pull an onion or more from the meat strings suspending from the cellar's ceiling beam and select a healthy amount of potatoes from the long bins.
I can still hear her voice say, "Don't forget to bring up two quarts of green beans. Corn would be nice too!"
We would admire the abundance of canned goods, cured hams and more. Shaking the flashlight happened often. Blackouts were common.
The young, small rodent patrol even listened for mouse activity.
No one wanted a mouse on his or her crisp red and yellow apples, either.
The main reason mother passed the chore to us was her fear of the aforementioned.
Dad, by that time, had already selected our turkey and it was well on the way to the table by the time everything else that made the meal a full menu was prepared.
Because the coal range only accommodated a huge, broad-breasted, white-torn turkey, baked goods exited the oven the day before.
I loved the homemade bread dressing like our grandmother Lynch taught mother to make. My sister and I were rather fond of a small treat of raw dressing, before the oven took charge of the roaster again. Mother skirted the bird with the fluffy sage enhanced stuffing. The inside of her bird never cluttered.
The meals were always the best ever. After several servings of the best tastes of home, we were quite content each time.
We were so thankful, a feeling with no compare.
After we finished our kitchen chores, the family settled down in the living room and mother seated herself at the upright piano. We sang songs of praise from the brown Methodist hymnal and several sheets of music that said it best. God is good!
Paul and I make Thanksgiving a permanent fixture in our lives that knows no season, no bounds or limitations.
The folks that live in the little blue house at the end of the road are very grateful for you and the wonderful folks at The Brazil Times for believing in me.
I must go now and fix a lighter meal than previously mentioned.
Someone might be experiencing hunger pains about now, besides me.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.