While I watch the wind blow the last of the colored leaves to the ground, my thoughts follow the dirt lane to the old farmhouse where my maternal grandparents raised their children during the Great Depression.  It is a house I visited many times while I listened to my mother’s childhood stories.  I toured it once recently when the present owner invited me inside.

Although my mother and father moved hundreds of miles away after their marriage, my mother’s thoughts frequently traveled to her childhood home.  She loved nothing better than to scoop up my siblings and me and take us with her as she recalled her childhood on a farm near Muncy, Pennsylvania – stories I treasured and passed on to my own little ones.

Mother spoke of a life filled with an abundance of indoor and outdoor chores and of nearby relatives who frequently stopped by on Sunday afternoons for visits.  On stifling summer days, the adults visited in the shade of the large front porch while the children took turns cranking the handle of an ice cream freezer on the grass under a shade tree.

When the harsh winter wind rattled the shuttered windows and forced snow to swirl across the bare fields, it was the kitchen that was the center of Mother’s family’s life, mostly because it was the only room in the house that was heated.  Family and guests gathered there, the single-paned windows steamed from the conversations.

The old farmhouse, which originally belonged to Mother’s grandparents, had no electricity, indoor plumbing or central heat.  Bathtubs, toilets and even a kitchen sink were non-existent.  Things weren’t any better outside.  There was no tractor or modern farm equipment.  Keeping the farm going depended on horses and one’s own strength and determination.  Parents and children worked hard from early morning to evening, but my mother’s stories were never ones of complaining.

The day before Thanksgiving, Grandma Alice killed and dressed turkeys for customers from town who gave their orders in advance.  Once the poultry orders were filled, Alice killed the turkey she would cook for her own family.  Grandpa Ed finished the outdoor chores, then got out his hunting clothes and sharpened his knife and cleaned his gun.  The days immediately after Thanksgiving were hunting days and Ed needed to hunt game to help supplement his family’s food supply.

The Great Depression was in full force and money was scarce for my mother’s family.  Mother often said that while she and her siblings were growing up, they never realized how primitively they lived on the farm.  But a person can’t miss what they don’t know, she would explain.

Something inside my heart was soothed when Mother spoke of the contentment that was felt at the end of each day as the family gathered at the dinner table and her father thanked the Lord for His generous provisions.  Grandpa Ed and Grandma Alice made it clear to their children that, but for the Lord’s benevolence, their harvests would be small and their needs large.

My grandparents have long since gone to be with the Lord, and their farm has changed hands several times since they sold it.  But my mother’s stories taught me that when a family realizes that they are dependant upon the Lord to provide for all of their needs – as well as their blessings – every day is Thanksgiving Day.

May your Thanksgiving Day be joyous, may you be surrounded by your loved ones, and may you give thanks and praise to the One who provides for your every need.


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