Author Kathi S Barton

Thanksgiving wasn’t about having a turkey and all the trimmings for us as children.  But it was about being thankful. It wasn’t about watching the big game on the television, but it was about family and friends.  It was about providing.  Providing for our families with what we did that day.

Providing a place where neighbors and families got together and helped each other.  Providing a foundation for people to make it through the winter months with meat on the table and warmth in their hearts – knowing that hard work and friendship made it possible.

When Thanksgiving morning dawned there wasn’t the scent of turkey roasting in the oven or pumpkin pies cooling on the credenza.  It was the last of the sausage frying in the huge cast iron skillet, ham sizzling right next to it.  Cornbread with cracklings and fresh butter warmed from the heat of the kitchen.

Grams would be hard at work in the kitchen when we arrived.  Everyone knew to bring their own coffee, as it was known that she made the worst brew in several counties.  But it mattered little; they knew when they pushed back from her table groaning with the weight of the food, you’d be full for hours.

Pancakes were not present at this feast, but nearly everything else was.  Ham and red eyed gravy, sausage and eggs, biscuits and cornbread, there would be mounds of fried potatoes with thick sliced onions.  And gallons of fresh milk, taken from the cow at the neighbor’s barn just hours before.

The food,however,wasn’t the real reason for this gathering. Before we sat down to eat, the men would have been busy digging a pit to put the large vat over to boil water.  The pit would be six feet long and several feet deep.  I could never tell how deep because the men who worked on it never stood in it when I was around – but I’d say three feet at least.  It would then be filled with wood – fallen trees that needed clearing and branches from the spring storms.  Cords of wood stacked close to  keep the water hot over the next several days.

The water would need to be carted by hand from the hand cranked pump.  I don’t remember ever seeing a hose, though I’m sure they had been around.  Once it was going well, then we’d converge on the kitchen in the main house.

Mostly the younger men would be responsible for the fire while the adults would be doing the actual job in the paddock

My Grandpa had a special knife that was used.  It was honed to a precise edge and sharp enough to cut a sheet of paper that was dropped over it.  It was not used for any other time of the year or for any other purpose than to kill the hogs.

We didn’t use a gun because we had been taught to never waste anything.  So to use a gun to kill them, would ruin the brains that my Grams and Mother loved to eat with their scrambled eggs.

My dad would simply walk among the pigs that had come to trust him.  A trust he had encouraged specially for this time of year.  He would walk up to the ones that had been chosen and slit their throats.

I won’t go into detail here.  Suffice it to say that it was a sad affair and often made us upset for several days afterward.

Once the hog had died, he or she would be pulled out dipped in the boiling water to strip off all the mud and then make it easier for the course hair to be shaved off.  Then hung from the rafters of the barn to be finished dressing out.

Over a week’s time we would work cutting and dividing.  Preparing the meat to be ground into sausage or hung in the smokehouse to be preserved for the rest of the year.  Careful marks were made on the hooks to ensure that neighbors got their meat, though no one had ever thought my Grandpa would cheat them.

My Grams would save the funny sheets for weeks before the day in hopes of keeping our attention for a few minutes during the days that followed.  She would tell us that Santa would leave us special gifts if he chose our brightly colored pictures in lines across the sheets.  It worked too, every year and every Thanksgiving.

Her manual sewing machine would clang along sewing the sausage bags together to be filled with the delicious concoction.  I’ll never forget taking a stack out to the sausage house to have them filled only to find she had sewn all the openings closed on the entire stack.  When I took them back, she said that she had meant to do that.  If they were going to make her stay in the house with all of us kids then they’d have to take what she gave them. She paid each of twenty-five cents to take the tiny stitches out for her – not each bag, but for the entire job.  We loved her that much.

At the end of the two weeks, there would be no more trucks in the yard, no more fire blowing up and sparking in the night sky.  The blood would be washed away, the tools cleaned and put away until the following year.  Plans would have been made to breed the sow’s that were left and which neighbor would be bringing their male over to cover the female.  The tractor would be back in the barn and it would be closed up tight against the cold.

My Grandparents are gone as I’ve mentioned before.  I miss them terribly and wonder what they would think of my family if they could see them.  I’m sure they would be proud.  I know that I am. I’m also sure they would fuss.  I’d welcome that too.

From our home to yours, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

The world is full of stimuli.  It’s a wonderful and vastly different world from the one I grew up in as a child.  In just the few decades since then so much has come into existence.  The smells, textures, tastes.

Today at work, while walking down the hallway towards the bathroom, I walked into a scent that triggered memories from that slower time, the happiest times of my childhood.

The smell was cologne, Old Spice.  My Gramps wore it.  He wore it every day whether he was going to the neighbors or plowing the fields.  The feelings that it evoked had me staggering with the flow of thought snippets.  Immediately I pulled out my paper and pen and began writing the words down that each held a special meaning to it.  Whiskers, chicken, beer, well water, iron – so many memories that I had to lean against a wall for support.

The one that came to mind first was my Gramps.  I lost him when I was just sixteen and the pain of that loss still brings a sudden tear to my eye and a pain in my heart.  He was everything to me.

My cousins and I would spend the entire summer with our Grandparents on their farm.  I was the only girl, but my other three cousins, Johnny, Shermie and Bruce never treated me any differently than they did each other.  We would leave the house at first light and not return until we were nearly starved or it was too dark to see.  Sometime we would go into the woods that ran alongside the farm or spend the day down at the river, swimming or fishing.  We never had a set plan, just as long as we were together and it didn’t involve school.

My Grandparents were Irish.  He and new wife, Alma Jane came to this country in 1918.  Along with their meager belongings, they brought their own parents and siblings.  Gramps had five sisters and one brother.  His brother, Thomas James only ten at the time, and his parents died on the trip over.  I never asked him what of, but it was likely the hard trip and their age.  My Grams parents and her only sister survived the trip only to die within the first year of landing.  A house fire took their lives that first Christmas Eve in this, a better world for them all.

After settling in Kentucky and saving every penny they could they were able to buy a nice track of land.  Until their own deaths, both still lived there and farmed.  I had never tasted a vegetable or fruit from a store, nor had I ever had pork from anywhere but their smoke house.  Hogs and farming were all they knew besides their faith and family.

The summer I turned eight I remember that Johnny and I were pulling weeds out of the sidewalk in front of the main house.  Grams was making homemade ice cream on the porch, churning the crank handle while sitting under the shade of one of the two oaks in the front yard.  The rhythmic chinking sounds of the ice along with the crickets were soothing.  It made you think it was much hotter than it really was just from those sounds.

A sudden shout rent the air and we all looked up to see what Gramps was hollering about.  He was sitting under the shade of the Maple across the drive, beer in hand and faded baseball cap on his still red hair.   “Kathi!” he yells again.

Grams said, “go on over see what he could be awanting.”  Her Irish accent strong even after the sixty years in this country.

I watched as she picked up the wooden blue ice cream churn and went into the house before I raced to see what he wanted.

My Gramps never raised his voice in anger.  He didn’t have to.  If you did something wrong he would only look down at you then shake his head slowly.  It was more painful than any punch or slap I’d ever gotten from my father.  It hurt longer and made more of an impression on me than any threat he could have ever used.  To disappoint him was paramount to ripping out your heart and having is stomped on.  He was quick to forgive and forget but the lesson was permanent.  Whatever it had been, you never wanted to do it again.

“Ask Mrs. Deatherage when we can be havin’ our supper laid.”  That was the only way I’d ever heard him refer to his wife, my grandmother.

Off like I’d been shot from a cannon, I ran to do his bidding.  I was so proud of the fact that I’d been singled out to do this for him.

Slamming into the house, screen door hitting the wall, I tumbled into the kitchen.  And right into another look.

My Grams looks were more varied.  The one she gave me that day was “you did not just do that” look and that was all it took.  Without speaking a single word, I turned around and walked out of the house.  This time I gently opened the door and just as quietly closed it behind me.  I sedately walked up the two steps from the mud room into her inter-sanctum, the kitchen to ask her about dinner.

“Grams, the old prick wants to know when we’re gonna eat.”

Now maybe I should explain something.  I’m sure they loved each other very much.  I’m sure they had the greatest respect for each other, but they didn’t live together.  He lived in the shanty across the drive and she in the big house.  No one ever said why and no one was dumb enough to ask.

The tomato she was slicing hit the cast iron sink with a splat and the knife clanged loudly against the faucet.  I watched as my otherwise happy grandmother turned several shades of red and breathed as though she was having difficulties.  Both her hands gripped the sink with enough force, I could see the white of her knuckles.  Before I could ask her if she was alright, she turned to me, green eyes blazing.

“Katherine, that name, prick…well that’s my own special name for your Gramps.  My own name, you see.”

“Like a pet name, like honey?”  I’d heard one of the ladies call her husband honey just last Sunday at church and had asked my Aunt Mabel about it.

“Yes.  A pet name.  So you don’t be acallin him that.  Dinna call anyone that until you get yourself a man of your own.”

I agreed that I would and that I wouldn’t.  She smiled at me then, eyes still sparkling and shining.

“Tell Mr. Deatherage, that dinner will be ready in an hour, I’ll be acallin’ him when it’s finished.”

After relying the message to him, I went back to the sidewalk and the weeds.  Grams homemade ice cream was involved and payment wasn’t paid without a thorough inspection of a job well done.

I never told my cousin about the pet name.  And it wasn’t until years later that I figured out that not only was it not a pet name, but also what she’d really been calling him.

When my Gramps died when I was just sixteen, I realized that I’d never heard her call him that again.  I was both saddened and ashamed by that.  I knew that I had taken away something that while not really very nice, it was theirs.

I miss them both.  I miss them both so much even after all these years that I ache with it.  I realized when I thought about them today that I’ve been using them as a standard to be both a parent and grandparent to my own children.  I think they’d be proud of me and my brood.

There are many more thoughts that I want to share.  I’ll be picking a word from my hodge-podge list on another day.  But for now I want to savor this one, this great memory just a little longer before I open another one.

My husband cooks these wonderful meals everyday.  But on Friday nights when our entire clan shows up, he really goes all out.  Take this past Friday for example.

This past Friday we celebrated Dale, our daughter-in-laws birthday.  On those celebrations the birthday person gets to choice whatever they want to eat including the desserts.  Dale wanted steaks on the grill, broccoli and cauliflower with cheese sauce, baked potatoes, and rolls.  For her cake she wanted red Velvet cake with lots of frosting.  (I didn’t say they had to eat healthy did I???)

Anyway…I realized how much work that he puts into both meals he prepares.  You see, there are seven children in addition to the eight adults that he cooks for.  The kids ate hot dogs, mac and cheese and cooked pudding in cute little cups for them.

Sounds easy enough right?  Eight steaks (check), taters in the oven (check), veggie in steamer (check)  cake baked and frosted (check). Hotdogs on grill (check) Mac and cheese (check)  STOP!!  Not so checked.

Lets start at the beginning.  Okay, cake needs to be baked.  Not so easy.  She wants cupcakes, not a cake.  So he makes individual cupcakes for her.  And he didn’t use a cake mix – heaven forbid!  He made it for her from scratch.  Okay, sifted flour, greased cupcake thingy, measured and whipped up into fluffy mass later, ready to bake.  This takes thirty-five minutes.  Then it has to cool for several hours to put on the frosting – and of course not from a can.  Two hours for the cake and viola!  Cupcakes!

Steaks.  Not so hard, throw them on the grill, flip them over and done.  Nope, not so fast.  Eight people, eight different areas of done-ness, from well done (ewww, no blood thank you very much), to rare.  And as you have already guessed, done to perfection to everyones taste.  Well of course…

Baked potatoes.  HA!  You’d think this was the easiest one of all, not so at our house.  Gotta have bacon – the real stuff, sour cream whipped up, butter and cheese.  All again to everyones taste.  He does let them put their potatoes together.

Veggies in the steamer.  Nothing frozen at this house.  The veggies had to be cleaned and separated into smaller florets and placed into the steamer.  Nice melted Velvetta with butter and a dollop of milk  to pour all over them when their served.  Yummy.

Dinner for eight adults.

Wait!  Me.  I don’t eat red meat.  I got a thigh and leg of chicken grilled until almost done then put into the oven smothered in BBQ sauce until the meat just simply falls off the bone.  Hmmmm, perfect.

The seven children, ranging from ages two to eight are having grilled hot dogs, soft fresh buns – no he didn’t make them, and please don’t suggest that he does, or he’ll be a week getting the recipe right, the length just perfect and the freshness down pat.  Mac and cheese that is made – yeah, fresh not from a box.  Their dessert is individual pudding cups with chocolate pudding on the bottom, crushed cooked in the middle, and vanilla pudding on top.  Then when served, another dollop of whipped extra creamy cool whip on the top.

Now here’s where the amazing thing comes into play.  Everything, and I mean everything, hot dogs, steaks, veggies, all of it is done at the exact  time and not one person has to wait on a single thing.  Timing is perfect!  Every week we all sit down together at the same time to the most perfect meal, delicious and succulent.  No one gets up from the table hungry, no one leaves the table to get anything extra – unless it’s a drink or someone forgot forks or something.  It’s perfect.  Just like him.

I love my husband.  I love him more everyday, more every hour, more every minute of every day.

Goodness dinner was fantastic!!!  My husband, Sonny is the greatest cook.  We had fried chicken with all the trimmings.  And even though I fussed about the cherry pie versus the apple caramel thingy.  Boy!  That was to die for.  Thank you Daniy!!!

But I’d like to tell you  about the conversations we have at the table.  The adults, and sometimes the younger kids sit at the table for a good hour after the meal is over and just talk.  There are generally about six or seven conversations going on at once, and on a varied subject matter.  I have been known to sing out loud to cover some of the information that my two daughter in laws, Dale and Wendy, share.  Sheesh!  There are things a mom should not know!

But Jason, my middle son was telling a story, I haven’t a clue what it was about now, but we were all laughing pretty hard.  Then suddenly Wendy, his wife reaches over and holds his hands down.  We all tend to talk with our hands in this family, and the more involved the story, the greater the hand gestures. Any way, he stopped talking.  Just like that, not a sound.  When she let them go, he picked up the story right where he left off.  Of course this is why I can’t remember the story because she kept holding them down and letting them go.  I guess the Irish in him proved to be too much because after the third time or so, he began gesturing with his head.  I thought the poor boy was going to have whiplash, he was jerking the sucker around so much. There was not a dry eye to be found as we were laughing so hard.

After that I noticed that Kelly, Daniy’s two year old was doing the same thing.  Every time he wanted something or was telling on his older siblings (at which point they would have to explain why they did whatever it is that they were doing AND use their hands to help with the explanation), he would use his hands too.

It is a small wonder that we aren’t all covered in bruises with all the hands and arms flaying around.

I love having dinner with my kids and their families.  Having them come over on Friday nights is the highlight of my whole week. I guess next time it’s meatloaf.

Well, have a great day today.  And remember Spring is just around the corner!!!  Woo Hoo!!!

Kathi