November 14, 2017 – Prompt – Write About a childhood Thanksgiving

Only one thanksgiving from when I was young, and I mean ten or under, stands out in my mind.

It wasn’t the meal itself that stands out; it was the people. It is the only Thanksgiving I remember with my grandmother; she passed away when I was twelve.

I remember sitting at the bar in her kitchen; I think I was 7 or 8. We made cut-out sugar cookies and decorated them, but they weren’t what I wanted to eat. I was holding out for the doo-dads.

My sister put olives on her fingers, but I wouldn’t because then I would have to eat them – no thanks.

We all sat down to eat – adults around the table, kids at the bar. I remember the loud rumble of my father’s laugh and the happy sounds of my grandmother in the never quiet chatter of twenty or more people.

It’s rarely the food or the event I remember – It’s the people, the laughter, the voices and bits and pieces of the stories they told.

Meleesa Stephens


Thanksgiving was a time of cousins, older cousins, five even older cousins who were I thought, very cool, but also condescending.

They knew things — like dirty jokes told in my grandparents’ backyard. Bernalk, with one foot up on the cement block that was the base of the clothesline. Always the teller. Glen, Jeanette, Lucille, and Lloyd leaning in, snickering, guffawing, belly-laughing. Then Shushing, in case one of the adults heard and came around the corner.

They would watch me, my cousins, making sure I stayed in back by the dried up strawberry patch, out of earshot. Making sure I didn’t ask, during the middle of the turkey dinner being set out in my grandmother’s kitchen.

“Mom, what’s a rubber.”

Donna Costley

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