Weather almost warm enough for a picnic is in contrast to past holidays when Thanksgiving provided a little snow for the gang to get out sleds and work off some of the turkey feast on the nearby hill. Or they could sharpen the skates and hope the little pond would be frozen to a safe depth.

Each holiday brings to mind the ones we have celebrated over the years. One nice, mild day about 20 years ago, we finished the feast a bit earlier than usual and started for Webb Mountain Park in Monroe for a hike and pinecone gathering expedition. A really glorious afternoon, and plenty of pinecones that year!

Another memory brings to mind an image of our much-loved family cat, Peter. Having gotten up at 6 am to finish making the half dozen pies and put the turkey in the oven, I was “napping” for a few minutes before the rest of the family got up and about. Some seventh sense, the kind you don’t know you have till you need it, sent me to the kitchen. There, on the counter, stood Peter, happily having a breakfast of pumpkin filling from the center of the only pie made of that filling. Did I holler at him? Yes. Did I whack him? No. I picked him up and took him to the back door and said “Happy Thanksgiving, Pete,” and suggested he go for a walk in the nearby woods. From then on we cooled our pies in places where a cat could not get at them.

My best Thanksgiving memory dates back to the war years. Housewives struggled with all sorts of shortages, but we made do with what we had. Food of various kinds was in short supply; and clothing – especially shoes – was a problem when two young children outgrew shoes about every six months and ration stamps didn’t provide enough to keep up with the demand. My mother and grandfather very graciously donated theirs, and we got by.

One of the war years we made an effort to grow everything possible in a very large garden. That November I felt so fortunate to have a bountiful harvest, and there was much to be thankful for. We shared with friends and our city relatives, and learned how to use every last scrap of food. The ration board was generous in allotting extra sugar so we could can the peaches and pears that were producing a bumper crop. We made only a few batches of jelly that year – strawberry, raspberry, and currant.

We had been raising chickens all during the war years, and people came from all over the area to buy four or ten or a dozen started chicks, to help their food supply. The cellar bins were well stocked with potatoes, apples, carrots, turnips, squash and onions. Both wood and coal were in good supply for the furnace, and we considered ourselves to be the luckiest people in town. We were helping the war effort in our own way.

Being thankful doesn’t need to be measured in dollars and cents. Sometimes it is enough to have plenty to feed and nurture your family, and to share this kind of wealth with others.

The column last week ended with a quote from Alexander Wolcott.

Who said “God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December”?