This year, Thanksgiving falls on the third anniversary of Mom’s passing.

Anyone who’s grieved a loved one’s death knows the sadness is unpredictable. Sometimes it sneaks in with a sigh; other times it clobbers you like a mallet and takes your breath away. But you learn, bit by bit, to “carry on” and do your best.

And so I dug around this week for a Thanksgiving poem, knowing how Mom loved the holiday and the gathering of family and friends.

Here’s Mom’s tribute from 1944, when she was an eighth grader, just 14 years old, in New Haven.

It was time to be grateful.

Rustic Holiday

High on a storm-swept hilltop, the North Wind howled,
Below, in the shadowed barnyard, one Reynard prowled,
The biddies fluttered –
The chickens cluttered,
And ’round by the silo, old Rover growled.

In the sequestered farmhouse, the coffee simmered –
While from the birch and oak, each red spark glimmered.
A boy with a tingling book –
Sprawled for warmth in the inglenook –
And from aloft, a pale moon shimmered.

The “tom” was wrapped in brown paper and grease
Lest Grandpa be tempted for just one piece,
The cranberries quivered,
And old Granny shivered –
As she strove to peek at the savory geese.

Thanksgiving dawned clear, with a crisp wind biting.

But turkey aroma was warm and inviting;
After grace was said –
And the “extras” read,
“Then the feast began,” in the poet’s writing.

The bronze-colored candles of old did flicker,
On droned the quaint mahogany ticker,
The fire did kindle –
And shone on the spindle,
And Granny relaxed in her chair of wicker.

When the guests departed, the stars were out,
And they rode away with a farewell shout;
And the snow drifted, flaking –
With the night sky awak’ning,
But the old couple lingered to look about.
~ Joan Cassidy 14 years old, Thanksgiving 1944

Dad took this next photo on either Thanksgiving or Christmas in 1957. Mom gave birth to Dave in March of that year, and I was already on the way.

Many times, some or all of our family traveled to Lowell, Massachusetts, to celebrate Thanksgiving with Dad’s parents. Their wedding anniversary fell during Thanksgiving week, making it extra special.

And look who’s ready for dessert already! I cropped this next photo a bit, but can attest that there was not another single person at the table – only Dad.

Oh, how he loved pie. And marshmallows off the top of the sweet potatoes (or was it yams?). Anyway, sometimes he peeled the gooey top layer off, just because he could.

Happy Thanksgiving to all on this fourth Thursday in November. Be sure to eat an extra piece of pie for Dad.

“Rustic Holiday” © 1944 Joan Cassidy. All rights reserved.

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