Twelve Turkeys for Mom’s Widows

Thanksgiving at Mom’s

Thanksgiving dinner at Mom’s has been at one o’clock in the afternoon for as long as I can remember.

The table leaves come out of the hall closet, the good dishes come down off the top shelf, and the card table goes up in the den for the children.

Royal and I got there at eleven. Cash and his little sister came with us, since our daughter and her husband were working the holiday at the hospital and would eat with us later. Royal carried in the turkey and the two pies.

Wayne and Maxine pulled up at a quarter till one, with Lettie in the front seat.

Wayne came around and helped his mother-in-law out of the car, the way he always did. Whatever else he was, he had always been good with old ladies on steps.

He came in the kitchen door carrying a sweet potato casserole and said, “Hey, Mama,” and kissed Mom on the cheek. He nodded at me. “Ronda.” I nodded back. That was the whole of it.

We sat down at five after one. Mom asked Royal to say grace, and he did, short and plain, the way he does everything.

He thanked the Lord for the food and the family, and for the hands that prepared it, and for neighbors. He put a little weight on that last word.

Then the bowls started going around. The green beans, the dressing, Mom’s rolls in the bread basket with a dish towel over them.

Royal carved. The children at the card table were already arguing over the drumsticks.

Lettie sat at Mom’s left, where she always sat. She had not said much since she came in.

She took a roll and buttered it carefully and set her knife down across the edge of her plate.

Then she looked down the table at my brother.