. Looking back, I feel as though there times we lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, specifically during one particularly cold late November.
Living in the country is an experience that nourishes your soul and remains there throughout your life. So it was on Nana and Papa’s farm that delightful memories were made. The two-story farmhouse refused to admit to a true age, but ancient coal-fed Dutch ovens had long been hidden behind wooden walls. There was no central heating system. A huge wood-burning kitchen stove provided heat and copious surface area for cooking and a massive oven for baking. A kettle always simmered and sang on the stove top.
The large kitchen was our gathering place. Our table could accommodate 20 people, and if need be, more. A bright room with huge, spotless, two-over-two panels of glass in heavy wooden frames for windows, which unadorned, might have appeared ghostly, but Nana always had pure white starched cotton curtains up and neatly tied back. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who ruled that room, although Papa kept the wood box behind the stove filled, and he rose early to stoke the fire. Looking back, I feel as though there times we lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, specifically during one particularly cold late November.
Nana’s four sisters and their families were coming for Thanksgiving. This meant a too-many-to-count entourage of great-aunts and uncles, cousins, and enough food preparation to feed both the U.S. Army and Navy. It also meant fun, laughter, noise, games, and who knows what the ‘city folks from New York and New Jersey’ might decide to bring.
The adult men enjoyed helping with farm chores while the women all talked at once, gossiping and catching up on family issues, or happenings that had taken place since their last letters. Phone calls were out of the question in those days, unless someone passed away. Now that everyone was together, chat, or forever be left out of the loop.
Relatives began arriving two days before Thanksgiving. I was encircled by bright-eyed cousins filled with excitement, curiosity and endless questions.
The women needed to make one quick trip to the city, some 10 miles north, for last-minute supplies. They would spend the next day baking. But today, the early chores were done, so my Uncle John agreed to forego his routine afternoon nap and watch all the little ones that ranged from two to 10 years old. I was nearly 13 at the time, and had my two year-old sister to watch. She was constantly in my face, in my hair, in my arms, or on my lap.
Uncle John gathered his ‘rapscallions’ as he called us, to the table and supplied everyone with paper, colored pencils and a challenge. Each of us was to draw a turkey. The person who could draw the best turkey would win a prize. Excitement rose as the children wanted to know what the surprise was, but he wouldn’t tell. His merry eyes and a slight wink indicated that everyone would receive something. He was famous for presenting bubble gum balls, much to dismay of their mothers. He’d announce ‘bubble gum war’ which involved blowing the biggest bubble possible and then go after someone else’s bubble.
Many a hank of hair was lost, and much time spent picking gum out of clothing, of eyebrows, etc. But the kids loved the game and shrieked and howled with laughter as they ran around chasing each other, trying to smash bubbles.
Our cousin Joseph was a quiet little guy, barely six years old. A bit withdrawn, he’d been sick a lot. He didn’t talk much, preferring to smile his approval or give a yes or no shake with his head, but he didn’t miss a word that was said, or an action taking place. He reminded me of a little sponge that quietly absorbs water without looking a bit wet. When he did speak, he was bright beyond his years.
Gray-white skies threatened snow, the wind howled and whistled, and it was very cold and damp, the warm, busy kitchen remained oblivious as little fingers flew streamers of color over white sheets of paper. You’d have thought it was a classroom; everyone quietly studious and involved in turkey drawing until an interruption or two broke the silence, when an explanation of ‘waddle’ needed clarifying, or, ‘Does a turkey have claws?’
While the artists worked, Uncle John read a story about the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving. Those who finished their picture rested at the table, chin on folded arms, their work safely tucked under so no one could peek. One small fellow nearly fell asleep, lulled by the warmth and drone of the kitchen activity. When the story was finished, it was time to judge the artwork. A new flurry of energy flowed through everyone. Who would the winner be?
Uncle produced a large brown bag filled with goodies. As he looked at each drawing, he heaped words of praise and encouragement upon the artist, but when he saw little Joseph’s, he fell silent and a broad smile spread over his face. He asked Joseph to stand up to accept the ‘grand’ prize. Uncle John then passed Joseph’s picture around the table for all to see the absolute ‘best’ picture of a turkey. Joseph had drawn his overly fat turkey on a very large, (a bit misshapen,) oval platter, with the two drumsticks sticking straight up, surrounded with his perception of potatoes and vegetables, large and small.
Everyone agreed Joseph’s turkey was the best. It was already cooked and ready to be eaten.
None of us would have guessed then, that many years later, Joseph would graduate from a prestigious college and become a well-known graphic artist for ABC Television Studios.
Longmeadow resident and veteran writer Phyllis St. Pierre is a Bay Path College graduate who likes "the sheer joy of writing."