What will you write about this time in your life?

As we write our life stories, what will you say about this crisis, this pandemic and how it affected your life, your family and your friends?

Today my neighbors across the street, Alice and Marsha called to tell me they had baked trout. "Would you like us to bring a trout to you, Glenda? Oh, and it has bones it in, but you have eaten fish with bones before, haven't you?"

Of course I have. We used to have fish fries on the farm in south Georgia. We caught the brim and bass in Major's Pond, a beautiful deep lime sink that stayed full. I don't remember the year my father began stocking the ponds. He stocked this pool of cool quiet water surrounded by trees with limbs hanging over the bank. Few people fished there. The fish grew and grew.

Major's Pond was my little heaven on earth. No human beings around, and only horses and cattle grazing on the tall grass a short distance from the pond. At first, Barry and I fished there on weekends and late in the afternoon after he came home from work. We trailerd our john boat over and settled in for several hours of fishing. Barry fished the shallow water for bass and I fished the deep water for brim. I loved my little rod and reel and, even after all the fishing gear was sold or given away years later, I could not bear to see that little fishing pole go.

The two of us often pulled the boat in after dark and drove home in the pickup with the bright moon shining our way across the fields. We usually had a nice catch that we froze until the day we and our friends could gather for a party. We cleaned and prepared the fish for frying. Our good friends, Mike and Sue, put on a fish fry that should have been written about in Southern Living magazine. 

Mike and his dear wife, Sue, who has passed away and is sadly missed.

Excellent hush puppies, grits and fish fried to perfection.
I don't think I have ever had any as good as the ones we ate sitting around the family pool on the farm. Having our good friends, several couples including Gay and Stu, my sister and her husband, made memorable moments that will stay with me always.
Those were some of the best times in my life.

Back to the present:
The large trout Marsha brought over was very good. I could easily fillet it and avoid bones. Eaten with a sweet potato, it made a great meal. 

Almost every day my neighbors bring over part of a meal they have just cooked. I have enjoyed celery soup, spaghetti bake, and other vegan treats. 

During all the heartache and sickness I see and hear about every day, I try not to feel guilty for enjoying my own life so much. And I wonder why I don't live this way all the time. No pressure, no responsibility for others, no appointments  -- just free time to do as I want. Heck, I am retired, live alone with my little dog, so why don't I live this way all the time?


Are you writing about your life these days?
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Thanksgiving, Family, Food, and Days Gone By

Part of the Council Clan at the Big House

With Thanksgiving coming up, my thoughts turn to the holidays of the past. It was a big, big day in our home where I lived with my parents and my younger sister, Gay. Big sister June and her husband Stan, and their little girls arrived the evening before Turkey day. When we heard their car drive up, it was celebration time. "They're here. June and Stan are here!"

Mother had been busy all week sprucing up the house and buying extra groceries. The twenty pound turkey had been thawing for three days.

Wednesday night my brothers, their wives and children came. The noise level rose and became a cacophony of sounds with the greetings, hugs, laughter and nine kids running in and out of the back door of the farm house. November weather in south Georgia is perfect for playing outside. The sticky summer humidity dissipates. Evenings turn crisp and cool.

On Thanksgiving day, Mother woke early to start cooking the turkey and the cornbread dressing for a noon day meal. We girls set the tables and filled glasses with ice for the sweet tea everyone drank except Daddy. His place was set with a huge cup of coffee.

We set two tables -- one for adults and one for the children. Mother made oyster dressing in her old yellow casserole dish, deep and large as a roaster, but she also made a smaller pan of dressing without oysters just for me. That was the kind of mother she was.

We piled our plates with turkey, giblet gravy and dressing, sweet potato souffle with nuts and marshmallows, jellied cranberry sauce, green beans, Lima beans, salads of all kinds and rolls or biscuits.

Three or four different desserts lined the buffet. Mother made sure we had chocolate -- chocolate pie or chocolate cake. Someone usually brought pecan pie or lemon pie. Mother also made a delicious banana pudding.

No one worried about his waistline that day. We sat around the dining table which had been stretched to its limits with two wide leaves, and we talked all afternoon. Occasionally one of us got up and helped ourselves to more dessert. We caught up on all the news from all the families.

Daddy withdrew along with some of the brothers to sit before the TV and pull for his favorite football team.

On Friday after Thanksgiving, we didn't head for the stores to shop. Mother and Stan pulled out all the spices, candied fruit and pecans and began the ritual of making the annual fruitcakes. No one else was allowed to help, and therefore, now that Mother and Stan are gone, no one knows the recipe. Once the cakes began cooking in Mother's large pressure cooker, the aroma of Christmas permeated our house. Mother's recipe required bourbon, and she and Stan poured some for the cake and a sip or two for themselves. She claimed the bourbon was the ingredient that kept the cakes moist. I think it kept the cooks happy, too.


When done, and cooled, the cakes were wrapped and stored in the cupboard. Once a week for the next month, Mother unwrapped the cakes and poured a little more bourbon over them; and wrapped them again. They would not be eaten until we gathered for Christmas dinner when Stan, June and the girls would be home again.

On Sunday, at the end of the long Thanksgiving weekend, June and her family drove away and the party was over. The only remnant left of Thanksgiving was the bare turkey carcass. Quiet settled on the house like a somber spirit. Mother, missing her oldest daughter already, sat down in her favorite chair, no doubt tired from constant cooking and dish washing.

I sensed Mother's sadness, and I felt a little sorrow also. Perhaps she knew what I didn't know at the time, but I've learned. Those family holidays together were more precious than I, so young at the time, could ever imagine. But she knew. And now I know.