I wrote this originally in 1992 but I want to share some of my family memories of Thanksgiving. My grandparents owned property in Holladay, aka the Farm. We would go there for many holidays but always for Thanksgiving. My sister and I lived in the front house for a few years until I moved with Joe and Pam bought a house. The Farm property was sold recently and our family still misses it.
There was a lot of family history there. We had: tea parties, craft projects, Thanksgivings, Easter egg hunts, cooling in the yard on summer days and so much more. My Grandma would make these huge rolls that were so delicious. I wish we had asked her sooner how to make them. I tried a couple years ago and she could not quite remember the recipe since she had not made them for so long. She will be 94 next month and still darling. We all miss Popa, he had a gentle but genuine laugh. I cannot believe all of the work they would do for these gatherings.
I even cooked my first turkey there for one of our Thanksgiving dinners. I also remember they always bought the biggest turkeys. I think they were at least 20 pounders! Grandma gave me the heavy brown dishes we used there and I treasure them. I dream, as the grandkids get older they can have fond memories like me. I hope I am going to be a fun grandma like my grandma.
The Farm
The Farm, where some of my best family memories are found. I have not walked to the creek to throw rocks for several years now. Myrtle vines envelope the path to the creek that was once perfectly trimmed. When pale blue flowers bloom on the myrtle, I can be caught picking one and sucking the sweet syrup just as I always done.
Secluded by a small forest of trees, set back from the busy road, this property was surrounded by rural country, just a few years ago. Located so far out of town, my grandparents named it “The Farm”. With two houses on the large property, a figure eight shaped driveway circles the front house and pushes the back house closer to the creek. Ma-Betty (Grandma) and Popa (Grandpa) would retreat to “the Farm”, their haven.
I also remember summer days sitting in the cool yard of the back house with Ma-Betty and Popa. Reclined in butterfly chair they would talk about how quiet it was. Ma-Betty mentioned many times that she would like to move to the back house.
Thanksgiving Popa and Ma-Betty would bring the turkey (or the dead bird as they named it) out to the farm the night before. Sometimes my sister Pam and I spent the night on the bunk beds. Being the youngest, I had to sleep on the top bunk, but I always felt secure from rolling off because of the rough green wooden 2 by 2 pole across the side of the bed.
East of “the Farm”, where there is now a restaurant and a parking lot was once a field of tall grass. Before helping with the banquet, Pam and I would love to play in that field. We would gallop on our hands and knees neighing and bucking like wild horses.
On the morning of Thanksgiving, around 3 or 4 in the morning Ma-Betty would be up throwing the dead bird in the oven. By two o’clock, it was time to help Ma-Betty set the feast out. We never had to worry about not having enough food for everyone, there was always plenty. I would stand by the oven door as Ma-Betty opened it, the heat would wave into my face with an inviting aroma. The turkey was glazed to a perfect brown, wading in its own gravy. Popa started the buzzing electric knife to trim and I could never resist stealing a steaming piece. He would chuckle and then his hand with the knife would make a playful swat.
There were so many side dishes to go with the turkey, you could not fit them all on your plate. I would always bury the soft white meat with a large heap of potatoes and smother it all in gravy. On the side, I liked green peas creamed but always slightly lumpy, (just perfect in my opinion). I would never take any stuffing. Grandma would make it so sticky that only an adult could enjoy it.
If I was unfortunate enough to have someone to prepare my plate, it would be piled with squishy overcooked zucchini, awful orange colored yams and other dishes I did not care for. If I was too slow to finish my helping, I would be threatened to finish the entire pan. Of course, I could always look forward to the creamy, sweet eggnog, which satisfied my already gorged stomach.
After dinner we would settle back and cover the round wood and glass coffee table with shoeboxes full of old photographs. We would chat and giggle about the photographs for hours. There were snapshots of several trips I remember like the one of Pam and me running on a beach in Hawaii. Or the many pictures of our cabins at Bear Lake, the all time family favorite is of Popa wearing nothing but his “Pork-n-Beans” swim trunks and a pair of cowboy boots.
Today I live in the front house with my sister Pam. I walk the dog back around to the mouth of the path leading to the creek. But I always seem to stop because the myrtle vine growing wildly. We do not act like horses anymore, but most of the shoeboxes of memories are still there and always will be.
11 years ago
