People have asked what inspired me to write “Still Having Fun,” the story of my parents’ military marriage. The short answer is grief. After both of my parents died in May of 2007, I found solace in re-reading my mother’s 1947-48 letters from post WWII Okinawa.

Before she got Alzheimer’s, Mother had mentioned wanting to publish those 30+ letters. I decided I would take on her project and the little project grew. It expanded back to my parents’ courtship and my father’s Army Air Corps days. It crept forward in time as I delved into documents and records, navigator logs and travelogues, performance evaluations, weight charts, emails, tax returns and household expense ledgers. My parents, it turned out, led well-documented lives.

Much to my surprise, I ended up writing an entire book about their life adventures, “Still Having Fun, a Portrait of the Military Marriage of Rex and Bettie George, 1941-2007.” Since the book was published, I’ve become an evangelist for capturing family stories and documenting family life. What could be a better time to start than Thanksgiving?

In my mind, November is the most family focused month of the year. Starting with Veterans’ Day and the Day of Remembrance, November ends with families gathered around the bountiful board, expressing gratitude and sharing stories. This year is doubly meaningful because Hanukkah and Thanksgiving fall on the same date – a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, I’m told.

Don’t wait; don’t hesitate. Do it now – before it’s too late. Record your uncle’s memories about the Vietnam War. Ask your mother or grandmother to tell you about an early job or the origins of a favorite family recipe. Decide to make saving memories a family tradition.

If I hadn’t asked my father about his most memorable WWII experience as the navigator of a B-24 heavy bomber – the mission that earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross – I wouldn’t know about his crew’s harrowing return to the UK after their plane was disabled over Bremen, Germany: “We lost control of everything. The aileron cable was severed. The plane dropped about 6,000 feet. We couldn’t get air speed to catch up with the formation…”

If my father hadn’t asked his ancient aunts for their stories, scribbling his notes on a stained paper napkin, I wouldn’t know that his great, great grandfather built a school house with the wood and salvaged nails from a dismantled sunken Civil War gun boat, then hired and boarded a school teacher for the children near their Kentucky tobacco farm.

If my mother hadn’t written notes about her mother’s family, I wouldn’t know the significance of a hand-painted, 1790 Pennsylvania Dutch wedding certificate I found when I cleaned out my parents’ house after their deaths. If my mother hadn’t saved her mother’s yellowed newspaper clippings, I wouldn’t know that Grandma was a finalist in the first Pillsbury Bake-Off.

If Grandma hadn’t saved my mother’s letters written from a Quonset hut in war-scarred Okinawa, I would never have written a book about my parents’ marriage.

Everyone has a story to tell. Vow to create a new family ritual of telling and asking about family stories. Encourage your children to document their past year. What were the highlights? What did they learn? What are their hopes and dreams? If they are too young to write, they can dictate their autobiography to you. The very young might draw a picture and tell you about it. Record them doing so. Put everyone’s contribution in a binder.

Add entries at least once a year – or more – perhaps also on birthdays or other holidays. Give your family the gift that lasts. Give them the gift of story.

Photo Credits

All photos by Candace George Thompson – All Rights Reserved

Guest Author Bio

Candace George Thompson
Candace George Thompson is the author of Gold Medal awarded “Still Having Fun, a Portrait of the Military Marriage of Rex and Bettie George, 1941-2007.” The book is a testament to the character and resilience of American military families, a history lesson and an entertaining romance.

Candace is the daughter of a 30-year career Air Force officer whose first mission as a B-24 navigator was on D-Day. She was born in Kentucky, as were both of her parents. Like most service families, hers moved frequently. By the time she started 10th grade, she had changed schools 13 times.

After college graduation with a BA in Spanish Literature, Candace served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Venezuela. Her rootless way of life continued upon her return – Vermont, San Francisco, Oregon, New Jersey. She and her husband have now lived in Chicago for over 30 years – eight times longer than any place before. She is happy to have finally found a home.

Her interests include reading, writing, sharing a good meal with friends, laughing, early morning walks, rock ‘n roll, feeding squirrels and collecting penguins. She likes all things Mexico and weird tidbits of information.

Candace’s stories have been published in several anthologies including those of the Puerto Vallarta Writers Group, the Off Campus Writers Workshop and the Military Writers Society of America.

Follow Candace: Facebook

Each day I open my eyes to the morning light, look out into my lovely bedroom, and am reminded of how far I have come in life. There was a time when I did not have two nickels to my name and could not put a roof over the heads of me and my daughter. Now I have my dream home. It is not a mansion or a palace but it’s spacious, comfortable, beautiful inside and out, and paid for. In these times of financial struggle, with so many homes being foreclosed on, I am more than grateful for the security I have been afforded. I will never take that for granted. I am blessed beyond measure.

I have been married to my wonderful husband for twenty-four years. He is a growth oriented partner whose love and devotion for me is limitless. Before we met I had believed for many years that I was unlovable. I felt all alone in this world. I am grateful that the memories of those years have faded. I give thanks every day for the abundance of free-flowing love and support I have in my life and for my incredible husband who reinforces my worth every day. I am blessed beyond measure.

I always knew that I wanted to have children, but there was a time before I became a mother that I did not feel worthy of having such a miraculous gift bestowed upon me. God believed otherwise because he entrusted me with the love and care of two beautiful, healthy, amazing children; first a daughter, then a son. They are the lights of my life. Both of my adult children are authentic and grounded in all aspects of their lives. They are motivated and successful in all they endeavor to do, and they are honest, loving, and caring people. I am honored and grateful to be their mother. I am truly blessed—may they continue to be blessed beyond measure throughout their lives too.

I am grateful for all the loving, wonderful people I have in my life; my parents, my two incredible sisters, the remarkable family I gained when I married my husband, my loving and dear old friends, and the wonderful new friends that have come into my life. These loyal, caring, and supportive individuals add immeasurable joy to my life; they lift my spirit higher with each cherished encounter. I am blessed beyond measure.

I have so much to be thankful for. And though I am especially emphasizing my gratefulness in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday I do make it a practice in my daily life to be grateful too. I try to acknowledge all favors large and small without any expectation from the universe. But I will let you in on a little secret; the more gratitude I offer the richer my life becomes. I highly recommend integrating gratefulness into your daily life; you will not believe the abundance it will bring you. You will be blessed beyond measure.

To all my readers, radio show listeners, and those who have supported my books, I offer a world of thanks. I promise—if you keep reading, I will keep writing. If you keep listening, I will keep talking.

And one more thing I would like to mention—my family and I are vegetarians so hopefully one lucky turkey will live to see another year.

Best wishes for a very Happy Thanksgiving. May you and your loved ones be blessed beyond measure.

~Randi~

Photo Credits

“Thanksgiving Autumn Fall Background”  © Irisangel | Dreamstime.com

Come Sail Away With Me” by martinak15 on flickr.com – Some Rights Reserved

“Turkey Lurkey!” by  Sugar Daze on flickr.com – Some Rights Reserved

A Version Of This Post Was Originally Posted At Randi G. Fine

Time. I have now been blessed by thirty-six full moons since I arrived on my island. During the waxing and waning of the Wolf Moon of January through the Cold Moon of December, this once city girl has learned to haul trees across the property, and how to set a pile of that same debris aflame with a propane blow torch. I’ve fought my way through stinging nettles as tall as I stand, and cobwebs spanning a dozen feet from tree-to-tree. I’ve sawed through downed tree trunks to get out of the driveway; run a good thirty miles from imaginary predators and the not so imaginary buzzing of hives unseen. I have knelt under the majesty of my giant cedars, swept the hem of their cloaks; sought shelter under their majestic limbs from a sudden, drenching, downpour; more alive than ever. I’ve moved rocks from here to there until their numbers and placements seemed more alien directives than landscape motif.

Daily, I have witnessed the wildlife move through the seasons to their innate circadian rhythm, yearlings turning to buck and doe, bunnies the size of my hand one minute, are in the next full-fledged rabbits munching dandelion greens that cover the field. The memory of a pair of Bald Eagles gracing me with a fly by one summer’s day, still snatches up my breath and reminds me who really owns these woods.

But perhaps the brightest and most unexpected gift of all was the community that welcomed me with opened arms into the fold. The friends I’ve made in my little town offered me a new found garden of joy. But like the nasturtium seeds I tuck away to plant come spring, I keep my old friends tucked close too; savor the memory of our heirloom friendships; look forward to the blossoming of shared tomorrows once again.

So on a magical night such as this, standing at my window and gazing upon the Little Dipper, I still go so far as to wish upon a star. But what do you wish for when your dream has come true? Why, I make a wish for you, dear reader. Star light, star bright…May this Thanksgiving find you blessed by the love of family and friends; may you find a bountiful feast on your table, and peace in your heart.

Photo Credit

Photo by Michaelene McElroy – All Rights Reserved

First Published at Greetings From Coupeville

Guest Author Bio

Michaelene McElroy
Michaelene McElroy is the author of “The Last Supper Catering Company”. At this time, she lives in the woods on an island in the Pacific Northwest where magic is ever present.

Blog / Website: www.michaelenemcelroy.com

When I came to live in France 30+ years ago, I realised that, in order to fit in to a fairly closed society in La France Profonde (Deepest France – like the Deep South meaning very traditional and conservative), I would have to seriously into cooking. I decided not to compete with French food but to serve beautifully prepared British food using the best ingredients and the French style and know-how I had acquired in my youth.

I had started working in a boarding school in England in the swinging sixties, and new staff were traditionally welcomed with invitations to dinner. One old bachelor hand-wrote his menus and called his house ‘The Guinea Pig Restaurant.’ My French friends were very amused by my use of this name every time I entertained them. I wrote out my menus in French style, Hors d’oeuvres, Entrees, Plat Principal, Salad, Cheese and Dessert. English tradition puts cheese at the end of the meal and serves it with port but the French finish with dessert and white wine or Champagne.

Thirty years ago, there were only French restaurants in the area so ‘Foreign’ food was unknown. I was very rigorous in not mixing and matching. If the meal was meant to be Italian, everything was Italian including the wines and I did the same for Spanish food, Indian food, Japanese food and Chinese food. With British food, if I hadn’t brought any British wine back from a recent trip, I served New Zealand or Australian wines which were a great surprise to many. I went to a great deal of trouble just as my French hostesses did when they invited us.

I added an extra touch, when possible, by having the table decorated in the style of the meal. When I gave a Canadian Thanksgiving supper, we had napkin rings of woven twigs and knife rests cut from apple wood. I overlaid my dark green tablecloth with an organza one with little pockets into which I put real maple leaves and hazel nuts. I hung dried gourds either side of the front door and strung small cider apples in garlands around the dining room. This took a lot of organising. My sister in law in Ontario sent me some dried maple leaves. My husband cut up apple boughs to make knife rests and when the apple fair at Vimoutiers was being demolished, they passed on to me their cider apple garlands. The napkin rings of woven twigs were little florists ‘notions’ that were supposed to be for fixing little flowers in.

The menu was Corn on the Cob dripping with butter – very unusual for the French as maize is perceived as cattle food! And the fact of eating it directly off the cob was a real novelty! I bought the Thanksgiving Turkey from a local farm so it was free range, slightly firmer than a battery raised, frozen one but tastier. I made a traditional parsley and thyme stuffing from scratch using the chopped turkey liver and fresh herbs, smeared the turkey liberally with butter and roasted it slowly in foil. While this was cooking, I seized the neck, giblets, combs and feet in butter and oil, poured water over them and let them stew slowly for a couple of hours topping up the water every now and then. The basis of my gravy was thus prepared. I served the Turkey with roast potatoes, sprouts and roast chestnuts. This was also unusual for French people who usually only have one vegetable with their meat dish. We followed with a salad of crunchy greens and hazelnut dressing, tasted some Cheddar and Stilton and finished with Pumpkin pie. This may seem ordinary to Canadians but it was really exotic to the French. Canadian wines had not quite reached their present state of perfection or indeed these shores, so I served Australian wines.

A good time was had by all and the Guinea Pig Restaurant gained renown!

Photo Credits

“Maple Leaf.”  © All rights reserved by Just Peachy!

“Buttered Corn.”  © All rights reserved by UT Archer 

“Pumpkin Pie.”  © All rights reserved by Ryke’s Bakery . Catering . Cafe

The first day of fall has passed.  Autumn brings with it the ancient Chinese wisdom of Yin.  The natural balance of elements teeter totter to achieve a distinguished equilibrium, creating harmony in life.  Our nights grow longer, days shorter, weather cools, becoming sharper and sterner.  The leaves slowly morph from their fresh green to brilliant yellow, orange and red.  It is a bright promise of change reminding me that before death there is an explosion of colour igniting against the blue sky.  As summer Yang recedes, Yin rises bringing us closer to winter when we can ponder, reminisce and retreat.

There is something about this season that echoes and compliments spring.  The yang of spring brings fresh energy, longer days, warmth and new growth.  And, while these elements seemingly oppose those of fall, I can’t help but feel a charge in the fall.  Perhaps it is in the dying of the light and the leaves that I find the invitation to let go of that which I don’t need – old love, friendships, worries, dreams that don’t serve me, fears and regrets.  And then, somehow in the letting go I am immediately rewarded because I make room for something new.  It is a time of profound change and acceptance.  And, it is a time for gratitude.

Since 1957, Canadian Thanksgiving has occurred on the second Monday in October.  Its purpose is reflective and humble – to give thanks for the closing of the harvest and the abundance that it brings.  Apples, artichokes, beets, broccoli, brussel sprouts, carrots, corn on the cob, chard, cranberries, eggplant, figs and kale – they are all harvested late summer and early fall.  Many of these foods grace the tables of those who observe Thanksgiving.

Our mainstream Thanksgiving celebrations echo those in Britain.  A celebration including hymns and prayer, the Harvest Festival is represented by cornucopias, pumpkins, corn and wheat sheaves.  It is held on the Sunday near or on the occurrence of the Harvest Moon.  Celebrations of the harvest have been occurring since pagan times to acknowledge the successful harvests and give thanks for abundance.  But, giving thanks for an abundant crop is not just a North American or British tradition.  Held on the 15th day of the eighth month in the Chinese Calendar, Asia boasts the Moon Festival and it is one of the most widely spread harvest festivals in the world celebrated by both Chinese and Vietnamese people.  It has been celebrated for possibly 3,000 years and includes eating moon cakes, carrying brightly lit lanterns, burning incense and fire dragon dances.  Other famous harvests festivals include American Thanksgving in November, Makara Sankranti, Thai Pongal, Uttarayana, Lohri, and Magh Bihu (or Bhogali Bihu), Holi and Onam in India.  

I have always thought of fall as being my time.  So many of the most profound moments of my life have occured either very close to or on Thanksgiving weekend.  I have so much to be thankful for this time of the year. 20 years ago, I ate Thanksgiving dinner on October 11– kept  warm by tin foil on a paper plate – while sitting in my hospital bed after having had brain surgery to remove a benign tumour.  This surgery saved my life and permitted me to go on to receive so much more. I met my husband at a Thanksgiving dinner and completed my post graduate degree in History in October of 2001.  In the fall of 2003, I accepted a proposal for marriage and then on October 11, 2008, I gave birth to my second child – my first having been born in the complimentary Yang of spring.  This year, one week ago, my youngest son was in the hospital being treated for a serious, but not life threatening infection.  We were in hospital for five days and over those five very long and focused days I could both see and feel myself taking on the burden of his fears and pain while I made his stay in the hospital as close to Disneyland as was possible.  Ironically – or perhaps inevitably – I also felt myself letting go of his babyhood as I watched him persevere against the pain and fear.  And, when we left the hospital I found something new –  a toddler that had somehow magically transformed into a mature little boy.

I am not Chinese nor do I possess great knowledge of the philosophy of Yin and Yang.  But, what I do know resonates with me.  Tonight, I celebrate balance with wonderful food, autumnal flowers, delicious wine, fabulous desserts and, most importantly, family – who, for me, are at the very centre of gratitude.

 Photo Credits

“Autumn Leaves.”  Flickr Creative Commons.  © All rights reserved by raysalaff103

“Harvest Moon Morning.” © All rights reserved by Linda S. Montgomery

“Cranberry’s Anyone?”  Flickr Creative Commons.  © Some rights reserved by Bruce Foster

Peace
A warm home
A porch light
Health
Laughter
Love
My family
Steadfast friends
Gentlemen
Dogs that know I like dogs
Cats that like me
Freshly cut grass
A good pair of Levis
Black turtleneck sweaters
Memory
Strength
The History Channel

Thanksgiving was the only day we said grace at the dinner table when I was young. My father would ask us to take a moment to remember the underprivileged in other parts of the world, and those who did not have enough to eat, insisting that we were very lucky, indeed, to be sitting down to such a fine dinner together.

Then he’d make quite a show of sharpening the carving knife by drawing the blade back and forth menacingly against the steel. He’d carve the turkey right there at the dinner table, offering the drumstick to the latest/newest boyfriend or girlfriend attending. If both my brother and I had dates present, both drumsticks were offered up, one to each guest. Usually our dates were too polite to turn down the drumstick (or anything else for that matter, particularly after the sharpening spectacle). It was always interesting to discover which new-found friend would spend dinnertime wrestling the thing with a knife and fork and who would opt to lift and nibble. Let’s face it, it’s difficult to make a good impression when one is gnawing away at a turkey leg.

At my place, we carve our turkey in the kitchen and send the plates out to the diningroom. Unless someone requests a drumstick, they are used for leftovers. There doesn’t seem to be enough time to take a breath, let alone take a moment to speak before we eat, but in memory of my father, I do try to say something at Thanksgiving and remind everyone why we are gathered at the dinner table. Then we gobble (no pun intended) up our dinner, hit the desserts and coffee drinks, and zip! That’s all she wrote (or cooked).

I love our big meals together and even though we don’t say grace at the table, I give thanks every day for my family and am grateful for this world and all the mysteries that surround us.

Photo Credit

Beautiful Table With Thanksgiving Food @ Flickr

It was cold. Damn. I had just moved into a new house.  Blue walls, Day-Glo mandalas, no legged couches and a general sense of the ending of the Age of Aquarius, mostly due to boredom and bad dope. The phone rang. It was Rainey, a friend of mine, conversant with cultural artifacts and deeply wounded in love to the accompaniment of endless Leonard Cohen songs, was still enamored of the great Canadian north and the idea of setting canoe upon blue lake amid rocky shore for the upcoming Thanksgiving Day weekend.Algonquin Park in the fall is cold and colorful. And foreboding. Not the heaven on earth of summer skies, drifting smoke, Northern Lights. But, more the Tom Thompson paintings of singular pines and rocky cliff, solitude and survival in every brush stroke. We put in at Canoe Lake, eight of us. We were an odd group, some us close to some and unknown to others. No matter, we headed up to the portage, moved across it, kept moving. Eventually we made it to Big Trout lake, made camp and set about the odd business of having to be at home in the woods as simple men and women.

The mist burns off the lake much later in the morning come October. The tripping of summer is replaced in the Fall by a heavier, slower rhythm, a beat that one feels in one’s bones, as if the water is hardening,the earth slowly closing down. There are few birds, the geese are gone, the horizon flat. A fire in the pit and some coffee.  We watched as smoke swirled into mist; eventually everything fades, all conversation disappears, these strangers who are friends of mine sit silently in worlds of their own. It would go on forever, this sacred silence, as if in the temple of our dreams, knowing that our losses were made easier by the promise in another sunrise.

These days I run early. The other morning I hit a turning in the trail and those days come to mind; Rainey running flat-footed, easy stride, canoe aloft, pack bouncing on his back, the others running easy behind. I have traveled many crooked roads to get here but come early October every year I am for a moment or two on those rocky shores, sitting side by each with friends, watching the mist rise, drinking coffee, saying nothing, dreaming of the days ahead. Some of them are gone now, but deep inside where I live most days, I sometimes wish I had enough of something to bring that thanksgiving back just once more. I had no idea, none of us did, of what was waiting for us once the mist lifted and winter came, bringing with it as it must, the rest of our lives.

Photo Credits

all photos-©2011 Michael Lebowitz