Recounting Thanksgiving blessings

Connie Goff

Here it is just a few days after Thansgiving and I hope everyone enjoyed a lovely dinner and the company of family and friends.

Thirty-six members of the Goff family and a few friends gathered at the Bluebird Crossing on Thanksgiving Day this year. The table was spread with delicious food. The conversation was livly and the laughter was often loud.

I love Thanksgiving.

I think it might be my favorite holiday. The feelings I get inside when we’re all gathered–the spirit of the season fills my heart.

This year was no different.

As Thanksgiving Day approaches each year, memories of Thanksgivings past come to mind.

Whether we gathered at our house or traveled to relatives, I love all the memories.

When we were children, I remember occasionally traveling to Moberly or Fayette to my grandmother’s sisters’ homes for the big day. I was always excited, not only for the dinner we would share, but I loved visiting with my great-aunts.

I distinctly remember one year at the home of Aunt Anna and Uncle Doc. (I don’t know why he was called Uncle Doc. He wasn’t a doctor. In fact, his name was actually Harold. Maybe that’s why he was called Doc.)

My sister and I were pretty small and as we sat around the table that year, we barely could see the variety of dishes over the edge of the table.

As the food was passed from one person to another, Carla and I put on our plates the things that looked the most delicious to our young eyes. I remember we both took quite large helpings of the ham. It just looked so good. We couldn’t help ourselves.

After the prayer was said, and it was okay to eat, we both dug in — ham being the first thing going in our mouths.

Now, I have to explain here that Uncle Doc had butchered the poor pig and cured it himself in a little shed behind the house. I don’t know why, but he obviously used an abundance of salt with the curing that year.

With that first large bite in our mouths, Carla and I looked at each other, eyes as big as half dollars. We were wondering what to do with that salty piece of ham.

We certainly couldn’t finish eating it.

I quietly slid the slice out of my mouth and put it at the edge of my plate. Carla did the same. We didn’t say anything, not wanting to insult the host or appear rude. As I looked around the table, I saw that our parents and brothers had done the same thing. The memory of that ham stuck with us for quite sometime.

Another Thanksgiving that generally comes to mind when thinking back is that of our first together as a married couple. As I’ve mentioned, I was not much of a cook when we were first married; however, I’ve learned a few tricks through the years.

I remember Roger coming home from work a few days before Thanksgiving announcing he had invited his entire Flight — approximately 15 young men who were not going home for the holiday — to have Thanksgiving with us.

To say I panicked would definitely be an understatement.

As soon as Roger went to work the next morning, I called my mother. I told her what was going on and I said, “Mom! I haven’t even seen a naked turkey, much less cook one. Help!”

At first she just laughed, probably remembering her first dinner made for company. Then she verbally walked me step-by-step what I needed to do — the shopping, the preparation and the serving.

Two of the men in the flight were married and they would be bringing their wives to dinner. Both of the women called to say they’d like to help. That was quite a relief to me. When asked what they should bring I said it didn’t matter at all.

On the big day, both couples came, toting their “dishes.” One brought a can of green beans and the other brought a can of jellied cranberry sauce. Are you kidding me? I hardly knew what to say!

As that group left that afternoon, there were many compliments and much gratitude expressed. I’d have to say things turned out much better than I was afraid they would.

Only one mishap occurred this year when we were preparing the dinner. I was taking four pies out of the oven and the raisin pie slipped, spilling all over my hand and the kitchen floor. Here it is, several days later, and my hand looks like I’ve been in a fight from the burns. (To add insult to injury, I cannot stand raisin anything. David accused me of spilling it intentionally because I don’t like it. Trust me, if I were going to clean up a mess, it would not have those nasty-looking raisins in it.)