Thanks for the Memories
I have always loved Thanksgiving. I don’t know if it is the mild climate, the scrumptious turkey, the fall football, or the family gatherings – I’ll take them all!
Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon.
Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then.
After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach.
After gathering for a family prayer, we’d devour turkey and ham and all the great stuff that goes with it: mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry salad, yams, corn, stuffing, and the like. I’d eat until my sides ached, but I always made room for Grandma’s pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of Cool Whip. I still say it is the best I’ve ever had, although my mom, following her recipe, comes pretty close to it.
The men would go through the line first, eating at their own table – or in front of the ballgame. The ladies would go next and eat in the adjacent room. Once my wife-to-be (we’ve been together since we were sixteen) began to join us for these gatherings, we thought this was a great hardship. When we asked about it, the ladies said, “Well, we like to talk about different things.” I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
Before long, Grandma and Grandpa would sit down to play Rook with whoever was willing to join them. As you no doubt realize, Rook was the only appropriate card game for Christians to play, since its simple, numeric cards were not used for gambling. After all, it was important to avoid all appearance of evil. You never knew what company might arrive unexpectedly at the door.
As a child I would watch them play; later I would squeeze into games when I could. It’s probably the most I ever heard my grandfather speak. Other than his penchant for singing “Oh, Dear, What can the Matter Be?” whenever the mood happened to strike him, he didn’t have much to say.
Late in the evening we’d make cold turkey sandwiches on dinner rolls, perhaps squeezing in another slice of pie. Even today, I think leftover turkey is as good as the hot meal earlier in the day.
The night would loll leisurely on. We’d make small talk (and big talk, too), play games and watch TV. A day or two later, we’d return home. Nothing particularly special: just a family gathering like families do. Now that I think of it, maybe that is pretty special after all. Thanks, family, for the memories.
Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon.
Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then.
After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach.
After gathering for a family prayer, we’d devour turkey and ham and all the great stuff that goes with it: mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry salad, yams, corn, stuffing, and the like. I’d eat until my sides ached, but I always made room for Grandma’s pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of Cool Whip. I still say it is the best I’ve ever had, although my mom, following her recipe, comes pretty close to it.
The men would go through the line first, eating at their own table – or in front of the ballgame. The ladies would go next and eat in the adjacent room. Once my wife-to-be (we’ve been together since we were sixteen) began to join us for these gatherings, we thought this was a great hardship. When we asked about it, the ladies said, “Well, we like to talk about different things.” I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
Before long, Grandma and Grandpa would sit down to play Rook with whoever was willing to join them. As you no doubt realize, Rook was the only appropriate card game for Christians to play, since its simple, numeric cards were not used for gambling. After all, it was important to avoid all appearance of evil. You never knew what company might arrive unexpectedly at the door.
As a child I would watch them play; later I would squeeze into games when I could. It’s probably the most I ever heard my grandfather speak. Other than his penchant for singing “Oh, Dear, What can the Matter Be?” whenever the mood happened to strike him, he didn’t have much to say.
Late in the evening we’d make cold turkey sandwiches on dinner rolls, perhaps squeezing in another slice of pie. Even today, I think leftover turkey is as good as the hot meal earlier in the day.
The night would loll leisurely on. We’d make small talk (and big talk, too), play games and watch TV. A day or two later, we’d return home. Nothing particularly special: just a family gathering like families do. Now that I think of it, maybe that is pretty special after all. Thanks, family, for the memories.