Serving the Community Since 1989 |
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I remember Thanksgiving as a day for my family to get together. The women-folk would all gather in the kitchen and dinner was on. Big Mama (my grandmother) was the overseer. After all, she had been the one who taught most of them to cook. Aunt Flossie was coming late because she had to fix dinner for the white folks she worked for as their maid.
Aunt Jo fi xed the turkey just right. Aunt Lois made pecan pies to die for and Cousin Dickey made the best ever sweet potato pies. There was plenty because everybody was going to want seconds and some to take home. The men-folk were hiding out in the back yard drinking their beer. They didn’t dare drink in the house. Big mama didn’t allow it and Reverend Jones may stop by to get a bite. With little money, everybody pitched in to make sure we had everything we needed . Snapping peas were almost a party because cousin Dickey was teased about her new boyfriend. Aunt Lois told about the happenings at the beauty shop she owned, while encouraging Dickey to get into beauty school. Anything was better than working in “Miss Ann’s” kitchen. The men talked about working in the factory, good pay, good times and anything better than picking one more pound of cotton. After all, that’s why everybody left the south. They also talked about the new youngster who got a job as a supervisor, making more money and a look at the future for their kids. Today, it’s a race to the market to buy everything readymade. Turkey and dressing is made by hands you don’t see, cranberry sauce in the can, a honey baked ham, some green beans that had been snapped by machines and pies by Mary’s Bakery in another local city. Even sweet potato and pecan pies are found at the grocery store. Imagine that. Most black folks didn’t eat pumpkin pies. There was always a stranger at the table. They either worked with someone in the family or met at church. They were always welcome to bring news from home in the south. Some may have just gotten out of prison or maybe they rented a room in one of the family’s home. Who knows? As long as they didn’t break Big Mamas rules, they were welcome. I remember Thanksgiving and with it, I miss my father and the teachings of my mother. I remember the long talks with Big Mama and the secret talks with my brother. They are all gone now and are singing and dancing with the Angels. As we enjoy Thanksgiving let’s all remember those special in our lives and leave special memories for the next generation. |
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