The smells, I remember quite vividly. Maybe even more than the sight of leaves – golds and burgundies and persimmons – strewn across the gently rolling hills of their backyard. My Papa kept a meticulous lawn, punctuated by a pear tree and a grape trellis in the far left corner, out near the neighbour’s hunting dogs which always stayed outside.

Whenever we arrived at 505 Church Street, something was already cooking. Usually the boiled chicken for chicken and dumplings or the brisket Papa was slow-cooking. Out of all my aunts and uncles and cousins, we were usually the first car to arrive. This meant that our family of four could slowly adapt to this new environment where my Mema stood at the sink shredding chicken and alternating between stirring the creamed corn or prepping the giblet gravy. My sister and I dropped our bags in one of the back bedrooms and then put on our fleeces to walk around outside. Our hands in pockets, we slipped between the rustic wooden beams of their property fence to sidle down to the church playground next door. On top of the very high slide, we surveyed the new surroundings, taking pleasure in the calm and peacefulness of Dothan, Alabama. We were used to city life and this, even though still technically “town”, was way more rural.

One by one, the relatives’ caravans arrived and children older and younger joined our gang. While we waited for food to be put on the table, we collected pecans and shoved them in our pockets. Sometimes we played games like ‘Mother May I’  in the sprawling yard or ate boiled peanuts on the back porch while the menfolk either reminisced by the grill or watched football in the den.

Finally, it’s time to sit down and eat Thanksgiving dinner. The kids are relegated to the kitchen while the adults gather around the dining room table. The food seems endless: turkey, beef, ham, creamed corn, butter beans, field peas, candied yams, giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, chicken and dumplings, cornbread, and cranberry sauce. I remember saying a prayer but no one ever said what they were thankful for.

As I got my coffee Monday, on the first day of November, I realized that their holiday cup signifies how we’re completely phasing out this holiday. It’s as if family doesn’t matter as much any more and we’re no longer thankful for all we have. As I prepare to have my parents and brother-in-law here in a couple weeks, I want to start a tradition of talking about what we’re thankful for. I hope my children will have the kind of appreciation for it I did and we can forge some memories like I have of family and food and thanks.

Street view courtesy Google