I Miss My Peace

Every Thanksgiving our family near and far gathered to celebrate this American holiday. Pastures and woodlands spread over one hundred and fifty acres. Being from Houston Texas where there was never silence made this a small piece of country heaven.

My grandparents lived on a small farm near Ft. Worth Texas. They raised about twelve to fifteen head of polled shorthorn cattle and tended four large vegetable gardens. He grew just about every vegetable and fruit that would grow in that climate. Two gardens were filled with a variety of tomatoes onions, squash, spinach and many other things I don’t remember. For a few years he grew peaches. Some I picked and ate in the shade after a hot day fishing for perch in the stock tank. He also grew about two acres of watermelons every year. These we enjoyed when we visited on Easter. My grandfather would pile them up in the backyard. We would come in from the pasture cut one open and eat the heart out of a perfectly ripe watermelon and throw the rest over the fence to the cattle who by now lined up and salivating in anticipation.

Another garden he committed to vine crops; cantaloupes, cucumbers and all sorts of beans and peas. This garden he had a plan for though I never realized it. When he was in his eighties he slowly turned it into a blackberry patch. He told me one day he “mail ordered” some special blackberry vines. Every year he would plant another row until that garden was a “berry patch”. He lived to be ninety nine years old. Something I think he left behind for all of us. I believe it is still there although I can’t be sure. The farm has long ago been divided up, sold off and made into ranchettes.

Many other things too that have faded from memory. What he did with all of these fruits and vegetables I’ll never know. I did know he gave most away to neighbors, churches and anywhere else there was a need.

When the Thanksgiving meal began cooking in this small two bedroom house it filled with wonderful smells. If we were careful, sneaky and fast we could grab a piece of corn bread or other morsels left unguarded. It was also filled with love as all of my aunts, uncles, cousins’ brothers and parents filled it as everyone arrived. Some came as far away as Alabama.

Normally my brothers, Steve and Rich and cousins Otis, Phillip and Jeff found entertainment all over the farm. Keeping ourselves busy fishing in the ponds, scaring up rabbits and roaming through the woods. Thanksgiving Day was special as we gathered around and said grace. No way could all of us sit at the main table so the older kids spread out across the living room and the little kids ate at the small table. Everyone found a place.

After the meal we all drifted into two main groups. The women cleaned up, men and boys migrated into the living room to watch football where many fell asleep, in chairs, on the couch or on the floor, stuffed with good food. The women made short work of dishes and all leftovers were packed and divided among the families. Being in my early teens I avoided the kitchen and had no interest in football. 

Instead I donned my coat and headed for the middle of the woods. A large pasture spread between the house and the woods. A cold wind bent tufts of grass over. The tank rippled where the wind picked at it. A solitary duck tried to hide in the cattails floating in the cold water not wanting to be disturbed. He was safe because I had other things on my mind. All other animals, even the birds remained quiet. If any were around they didn’t make a sound. Probably preferring to stay warm where ever they were. When I reached the woods there were only a few briars on the edge to object. Half the trees had lost their leaves. The ground was covered with decades of oak leaves crisp enough to crunch underfoot and deep enough to hide your shoes when you stepped. I knew these woods well and walked straight to "my" tree. Bundling my coat tight I sat with my back against the tree and sat comfortably still. This is essential to finding my Thanksgiving peace. In the 60's there were no planes or trains on Thanksgiving. People didn't drive on the dirt road preferring to stay home, so no car engines either. I’ve never found a place since those days so close to home yet so silent.

Closing my eyes listening became paramount. The cold breeze constantly blew the leaves on the ground each of which settle down further into its own spot but that wasn’t what I listened for. It also plucked them from their places in the trees. Focusing I heard the first tiny click. My peace was on its way. The first leaf fell through the cracks in my busy mind. After awhile I heard them fall in two’s and three’s. When my mind was receptive enough they fell like dry snow throughout the woods. Some near me then spreading out through the woods like a silent symphony. Only here at this time and in this place I felt perfect peace. It soaked into my soul, soothed my mind and healed my spirit. I stayed about an hour or so before my body became stiff and its complaints began to draw my attention.

I rose completely refreshed and the sound of the falling leaves died. They still fell but had been quieted by my breathing. This time passed with time. Now the noise of trains and cars come frequently. Construction equipment fills the gaps of silence. The sound of constant encroaching progress.

1Every Thanksgiving I yearn for those times. I remember the silent yet temporary Thanksgiving peace I enjoyed fifty years ago.