“Thanksgiving more special in those days” from the November 27, 1974 Door County Advocate
Thanksgiving more special in those days
By GRACE SAMUELSON
Is it just a trick of memory, or really true that the good old-fashioned winters came earlier, with deeper snow, years ago? I remember that when I was in Miss Mae Minor’s third grade room, Thanksgiving and snow drifts were the usual winter expectations. We all sang lustily the familiar song:
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandmother’s house we go.
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
We had no Grandmother’s house to go to—our only Grandmother lived with us. But on that memorable Thanksgiving all the grandchildren were together, as our Aunt Grace and her four children came for the holiday. Preparations had been going on for a week.
Anticipation ran high at school, too. Our readers related the stories of the Pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock, their suffering through the first long winter, and their gratitude of a bountiful harvest. We colored pictures in the little booklets we made to take home, and memorized the verse:
Said Old Gentleman Gay, “On Thanksgiving Day,
If you want to be happy, give something away.”
When our booklets were neat and the stories and poems copied in fair imitation of Miss Minor‘s beautiful Palmer Method handwriting, she would , stamp “GOOD WORK.” and a star+ on it. (We saved the “Good Works” and when we had a hundred we’d get a prize.)
When we were allowed to help in the preparations it made Thanksgiving seem to come much faster. We helped chop the suet, raisins and beef for the mincemeat in the huge wooden chopping bowl. We kept the woodbox filled for the big black range, carried in pails of water from the pump outside the back door, and scuttles of coal for the base burner from the woodshed. Luscious smells wafted through the house and we wondered if we could stand the waiting.
On Thanksgiving morning we were up early, but we were given scant attention. We dished up our own oatmeal from the double boiler, where it had been cooking overnight on the back of the old coal stove, poured milk from the pitcher in the cellarway, and munched on rusks made of buttered and cinnamon-sprinkled rolls, toasted in the oven. Two of the girls wouldn’t eat breakfast so they‘d have a better appetite for the feast. They were to rue that, though, as the long wait till the turkey was done left them faint and almost too nauseated to eat.)
We watched spellbound, the turkey being readied for the oven (turkey was a once-a-year meat in those days). You ordered it either from Mrs. Huxford’s Market or direct from a farmer, and it was delivered still sporting its long neck and head. The task of tweezing out all the black pinfeathers was done the night before. We were relieved to see that the turkey hadn’t been swiped from the back shed overnight. That was the coolest storage spot we had in winter.
“Run outside and play, children” we heard time and again, all morning when we were underfoot. It was hard to miss the activities but we’d run out and play “fox and geese,” build a snow man, or make “angels” in the snow, and then we had the excuse of being cold to get back into the fascinating kitchen. Rubbers, leggings, long black stockings and even the hated long underwear were soaked through from the wet snow so we had to change, hang the wet things around the coal stove to dry, meanwhile playing Flinch, Old Maid or checkers. The day dragged for us.
The savory smells heightened, stealing in waves when the oven door was opened to baste the turkey. Now the big table in the dining room was stretched to its fullest length, and the extra leaves put in. Next, the table pad, and “Great-Aunt Effie’s linen tablecloth with the red-striped border was smoothed over.
The best china came down from the cupboard; the cut-glass compotes, celery dishes, and fruit bowls. Out came the best silver in the flannel cases, the lacy doiley for the center, topped with a bowl of polished fruit. The largest linen napkins were used, and best glassware. Dinner time was drawing closer, and there was an almost feverish activity where those wonderful smells emanated. Potatoes boiling; almost ready for mashing; sweet potatoes being candied on the back of the range. Rutabagas and onions, with their pungent odors; luscious golden gravy, smooth as silk. Crisp cole slaw, pickled crab apples, spiced peaches, crunchy celery standing tall in the cut-glass holder, and the inevitable mold of quivery jelly, turned out on the high compote; some way these all made their way to the table. The rolls, fresh bread, butter and milk came next, and we waited with bated breath for THE BIRD to come on: crispy brown, fragrant and juicy, the delectable stuffing oozing with flavor, just waiting for the lacing to be cut, and the stuffing scooped into the serving bowl.
The buzz of conversation hushed; we bowed our heads while Mother said grace, then each in turn related what he or she had to be thankful for. Then, that passing of dishes, what platefuls of food; what enormous appetites on that day!
Almost, we were too full for pie-golden pumpkin, beloved criss-cross raspberry, hot mince. But we had to sample a bit of each. The turkey carcass still held meat for evening sandwiches; the serving dishes had been emptied, refilled, and emptied again.
The afternoon was almost over. No radio to bring us news; no television or Packer game. We children dressed warm for a romp in the snow; Mother and Aunt Grace did the dishes—children weren’t trusted with the best china. It would be another year before we feasted on turkey. But we had the blessings of love and home and family, and as we went through the kitchen we joined Mother in singing, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” This was a Thanksgiving to remember.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Articles by Grace Samuelson
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/grace-samuelson
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