TRUE THANKSGIVING STORY and Pecan Pie Recipe

by Jackie King

Thanksgiving is the perfect time for reminiscing and for remembering family stories. These generational memories are often centered around cooking and good food, and these special tales of family history should be treasured and never forgotten.

Here is a yarn spun for the pleasure of all gathered at a festive Thanksgiving meal celebrating God’s abundance and goodness. Such true stories cry out to be told and retold.  

June Butts with Sofia her Great Granddaugter

June Butts with her grandson, Jamie Horn

Memories of Papa Peeling Pecans for the Grandkids

 “We called our grandfather, Papa,” June Butts, now a great grandmother herself, said. “Back in those days different generations of the family lived in the same house, and it was wonderful to grow up with an older person who had the time to tell stories and to teach us kids about the generations past. I think maybe that’s one reason why families were closer back then.”

 The comely woman smiled and the faraway look that came into her blue eyes told me she had transported herself back to South Texas and a simpler life sometime in the 1950’s.

 “We had a pecan tree and Papa peeled pecans for the kids. We’d sit in a circle at his feet, listen to his tales, and eat the perfectly shelled and halved nuts as he passed them around.”

 “Peeled pecans?” I asked, trying to imagine how such a feat might be possible. “How could he peel pecans?”

 It was Thanksgiving Day and I had been invited to join June’s family for a traditional dinner of turkey, dressing and all of the trimmings. We were sitting around the table drinking coffee and savoring that mellow sated satisfaction that fills a group of friends during happy times.

 “With his pocket knife,” June said.

 “His pocket knife?” I asked. “You’re kidding.”

 “I’m not!” June’s robust laugh was typical of a woman who was Texas born and bred. “He peeled those pecans just the same way you’d peel an orange. He’d slice off the top and the bottom, cut slits around the nuts and then just peel off the hulls. Those pecans came out in perfect halves and he’d hand them to us kids.”

 “That must have been one sharp knife,” I said, wondering how he kept from cutting off his fingers.

 “That it was,” June said. “And he could peel those nuts really fast. Sometimes he’d peel enough for Mama to make us some pies.” She sighed with remembered pleasure. “Mmm—mmm—mmm, those pies were good! We never had much money, but we had happy times, anyway. God was always good to my family.”

 “I’ll bet you learned to cook from your own mother,” I said.

 “Sure did. Mama and Daddy had eleven kids, and I was helping stir up dinner as soon as I could hold a spoon and stand on a stool to reach the table.”

 It happened that we were drinking Texas Pecan flavored coffee. I took a sip of the hot brew and savored the rich flavor. Pecans, family and holidays equal pure pleasure, I thought. Everyone sitting at the table owned their own cell phones and computers, but some things never change. The memory of “peeled pecans,” outranked any of the electronic pleasures available to the diners.

Only the delicious food that we shared stayed the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loretta Carson’s Pecan Pie

1 Scant cup sugar

1 cup dark Karo Syrup

3 eggs

3 Tablespoons melted butter or margarine

Pinch salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup pecans

Beat eggs and sugar until blended. Add Karo syrup and mix well, then add melted butter, salt, vanilla and pecans. Mix well and pour into 9 inch unbaked pie crust. Bake at 400 degrees for 8 minutes. Turn heat down to 325 degrees and bake for 35 minutes. (Center will be set.)

Happy Thanksgiving to All

by Jacqueline King and Jennifer Sohl

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I’m Thankful for Everything (Except Earthquakes!)

by Jackie King

There are three things I do most every day: write, exercise and pray, which includes counting my blessings. One extra thing has recently added itself to this list: an afternoon rest/nap period. I don’t acknowledge this fourth thing, because I didn’t invite it to join my list. It sort of added itself. I’m an old gal and sometime after lunch my energy disappears. When this happens, I lie down and use the time to count my blessings.

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving I was doing just that while stretched out on my bed. It was Wednesday on November 12, about 4:20 p.m. Killing two birds with one stone, as my grandma used to say.

The bed began shaking. When you live in Tulsa, Oklahoma, your bed isn’t supposed to shake unless you’re in a sleazy motel and have put a couple of quarters on the vibration gizmo. After a split second of shock, I realized I was in an earthquake.

Earthquakes have been reported in Oklahoma before, but this was the first time I had experienced one. This part of the country suffers through tornado season. We’re not supposed to have earthquakes, too. Not fair! my inner child shouted inside my head. The tremors seemed to go on forever, but it was probably only 5 to 10 seconds. And for sure, when my bed stopped vibrating, I had something new to be thankful for: being alive and safe.

Today is Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving rocks! You don’t have to buy anyone a present, and I don’t even have to bake a turkey anymore. I’m lucky enough to have a daughter named Jennifer Sohl who is the best cook in the world. Or at least in our family. She and her firefighter husband, Jim, host family and friends, and concoct a fabulous feast. Then they serve this banquet on a beautifully set table.

The conversation will be sparkling and fun…it always is. I have two teen-aged grandchildren, the redheaded twins Justin and Morgan. They will spar with their adopted Aunt Bob (Sheryl Lewis) keeping me laughing. I will eat too much and laugh until I’m exhausted.

I’ll also give thanks for everything…except earthquakes.

http://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/

Thanksgiving Thoughts from New Orleans

By Jaden Terrell

I'm writing this post from a quaint little New Orleans hotel called The Prytania Park Hotel. Lace curtains over the window, pineapple-colored walls, antique green armoire, desk, and dresser, wrought-iron chairs and tables in a courtyard draped in ivy. Mike and I just had got back from dinner at The Irish House, where we shared a bowl of the most delicious lobster bisque I've ever had, followed by a fig-and-brie-stuffed duck breast. It doesn't get much better than this. I can even enjoy it without guilt because I wrote a chapter of the third Jared McKean novel on the way down. (Fortunately, Mike was driving.)

Tomorrow, we explore New Orleans, and on Saturday, we embark on a cruise to the Caribbean, a 25th anniversary gift from both our mothers. It's a first for both of us--we'll visit the falls in Jamaica, swim with wild stingrays and go to the turtle sanctuary in Grand Cayman, and tour the Mayan ruins in Cozumel. I don't know if Jared will be traveling to any of those places, but I'll be taking notes in our cabin afterward, just in case.

This month of Thanksgiving reminds me to be conscious of the things that bring happiness and not to take them for granted. Sitting here in this charming hotel room, I'm reminded not just to be grateful, but to express that gratitude.I'm grateful for this opportunity to experience new things, have time to write on the ship, and spend a week alone with someone I love. I'm grateful for my mom and his, not only for giving us this incredible gift, but for all the love and support they give us every day.

What else am I grateful for? Family, friends (old and new, real-world and online), my publisher, Martin Shepard, my agent, Jill Marr. I'm grateful for our dogs, who love us unconditionally, and for our jobs, which help us pay the bills--at least until that six million dollar (after taxes!) movie deal comes through. I'm grateful for the Quill and Dagger critique group and for Clay Stafford and Killer Nashville.

I'm grateful for all of you who read and write this blog. You're the best.

Above all, I'm grateful for this great adventure that is life, especially the writing life. The cruise doesn't end when we return to the dock. In a metaphorical sense, it begins the day we're born and ends...well, does it ever end? Or do we just disembark at another port?

What are your thoughts? And what are you grateful for?

Bon voyage!

Wii Wii Wii All the Way Home

By Beth Terrell

On Thanksgiving day, my husband, Mike, and I had dinner with Susan, the niece of my mother's boyfriend. The meal was delicious, and the conversation warm. My brother played pool with our hostess's father, Roy and brother, Pat (a police officer whose brain I love to pick). Then they turned on the Wii.

I'd heard of the Wii before, the high-tech video game that uses your own movements to conduct virtual games. Mike, Susan, Pat, and Pat's mother, Robbie decided to play the bowling game. It was remarkable. Mike's throws had a noticeable left hook--just like his real-life bowling style. A good time was had by all. As a self-acknowledged klutz, I enjoyed watching from the sidelines.

Of course a few days later, Mike brought home a Wii of our own. One cool thing about it is that you can personalize your little virtual self (called a Mii), so Mike and I have each made facsimiles of ourselves. These guys are seriously cute. Since then, I've learned that my bowling skills leave a little to be desired, that I'm a terrible golfer but not too bad at table tennis, and quite possibly the worst pilot on the planet. My hat's off to Mark for being able to fly a real plane. I can't tell whether I'm above or even with a church steeple until I crash right into it. I'm terrible with a frisbee, but pretty darn good with a sword. I'm not sure what that says about me, but if the zombie apocalypse comes, I'll be a pro at decapitation--a valuable skill when dealing with the undead.

A few days ago, I made an interesting discovery. I'd been working on my NaNo novel and hit a snag. No matter what I did, I couldn't get past it. So I took a break, and Mike and I played with the Wii for awhile. He crushed me in bowling, I beat him at table tennis, and we took turns knocking each other off a cliff and into the water with our swords. When I sat back down at my computer, the words and ideas suddenly started to flow again. I don't know if it was the break, the physical activity (yes, you can work up a sweat with the Wii), or some magical quality of the little Miis (mini Miis?), but tonight, it happened again.

I'm wondering if maybe I should tell the Wii people. They could market their product as a cure for Writer's Block.

Does this mean we can write it off on our income taxes?

Mine's the Black One

By Mark W. Danielson

It had been a superb trip to Sacramento. The weather was perfect for my flights out and back. By airline standards, my twenty-four hour layover there was quite long. My first officer was excellent, and we even arrived back in Memphis a little early – one AM on Thanksgiving morning. The only down side was I was stuck there until my next trip started 35 hours later. Actually, things soon got worse.

When I got on the crew bus that takes us to the parking lot, I ran into an old friend who had been one of my back seaters in the F-4 Phantom. He later became a pilot and has been with FedEx a few years less than I. My suitcase was in the repair shop so I took the one my step son had last used. Since the ride to the parking lot takes a few minutes, my buddy and I used the time to catch up on things.

I hadn’t driven my truck in a couple of months, so I wasn’t exactly sure where it was among the hundreds of vehicles, but knowing that I parked in the first two rows narrowed it down. My plan was to get off at the second bus stop and start walking, but apparently the bus driver had other plans. In spite of my repeated requests to stop, he kept going, and when he finally did stop, I grabbed what looked like my borrowed bag and started searching for my truck. Thankfully it was fairly close, so I tossed the bag in and took off.





My crash pad is thirty minutes away, and when I arrived, I immediately discovered I had grabbed the wrong bag. To make matters worse, my cell phone was dead and my charger was in my bag. To top that, there was no name on the bag I had, and my step son’s name was on mine. Clearly, it was going to be a long night.

Thankfully, I found a rental car receipt in the bag I had with a name that matched one of our crewmembers. Using the company’s web site, I found his e-mail address and phone number, but since my landlady doesn’t have a house phone, I sent him an e-mail explaining the situation, and planned to find a pay phone soon after. To my amazement, I received a prompt e-mail response saying his keys were in his bag so he was stuck in the flight operations building, and “if I was so inclined,” would I mind brining it there. I felt horrible about my stupidity, but at least we had found a way to swap bags. I sent another message saying I was on my way. Two minutes later, my wheels were spinning.

The gods were watching over me, giving me green lights most of the way. I immediately went to the desk and had his name paged, but no one showed up. After searching for him, I borrowed a cell phone and we finally linked up. He was a true gentleman, and I owe him a dinner. He got home a little later than planned, but at least he was there for the holiday. For me, time was irrelevant and I got to bed about 4:30 AM, which is actually pretty good in this job.

In all my years of traveling, I’ve never before made this mistake. The odds of my phone dying and his being stranded because his keys were in his bag made this event rather extraordinary, and the fact that we were even able to communicate made it that much more amazing. But all’s well that ends well, right? And now that my real bag has been repaired, I shouldn’t make this mistake again because after all, mine’s the black one.

Reflecting on a Milestone

By Chester Campbell

Yesterday was my birthday, and I was overwhelmed by all the good wishes I received on Facebook. I'm not a prolific Facebooker, maybe once a day, sometimes not at all. But it's heartening to bask in my moment of glory at the passing of another milestone. Actually, the dictionary defines milestone as an important event, a turning point. When you're in your thirties or forties, another birthday coming along may seem a bit bothersome, but at my age you wear 'em with pride.

Hey, I'm still here.

Coming so close to Thanksgiving, my birthday was a time to look back and be thankful for all the friends I've known, the people I've met, the places I've seen, the things I've accomplished and, most of all, the family whose love I have experienced.

I thought about Johnny Green, my early boyhood best friend, who didn't make it past his forties. We did a lot of wild things together, like riding our bicycles to the Nashville airport (without our mothers knowing, of course) and paying five bucks apiece to fly in an open-cockpit airplane. This was back in the thirties. I reminisced about my high school and college buddy, Dan Leech, with whom I did equally outrageous things. Dan had a Model A Ford he'd gotten from his grandfather. When we were at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, we'd drive it home and back. Traveling U.S. 70 late at night, we'd turn off the headlights and navigate the winding road by moonlight.

As a newspaper reporter and later a local magazine editor, I met countless people both important (at least in their estimation) and ordinary. While working for a PR agency, I wrote a campaign brochure for Dr. Winfield Dunn, who went on to become governor of Tennessee. I worked on it with his campaign manager, a young lawyer named Lamar Alexander. Lamar went on to become governor, and I was impressed that whenever I saw him, he always called me by my first name. I haven't seen him in years, but he's now one of the most influential Republican senators.

I did numerous interviews as a reporter. One I remember distinctly was with the violinist David Rubinoff, better known as Rubinoff and his Violin. He had come to Knoxville to play with the symphony. I walked into his hotel room, introduced myself and he started talking. I don't remember if I said anything else but "thanks" before leaving, but he was a tour de force. He insisted on giving me a little violin-shaped card with his autograph. I probably still have it somewhere.

Among the not-so-eminent, by normal standards, people I've encountered was a man whose name I can't recall. He wandered into my Sunday School class one morning looking for a cup of coffee. He was dressed in jeans and a clean but well-worn shirt. This was several years ago before such attire was common in church. He told us he was homeless. He was fairly new to Nashville and had lived with another guy but moved out. He joined us for several Sundays. We kept him in coffee and donuts, when we had 'em. Eventually he moved on and we never heard from him again.

I've had lots of friends who enjoyed life as they found it, never making it big, but never having the desire to. A lot of them are no longer around, which happens when you keep on having birthdays. We joined another Sunday School classes when the old one dwindled to nearly nothing.

I saved the family for the last, though it really comes first. After the mother of my children died, I remarried. Sarah brought along two children, three grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, to add to my four kids, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. When holidays like Thanksgiving come along, it's pandemonium at our house. Fortunately, lots of people bring food, so Sarah doesn't do a lot of cooking. We had 26 people last Thursday, and it's a good thing nobody called the fire marshal. All of my crowd wasn't there, with a son and his family in Pennsylvania and a daughter around Atlanta. We'd've had to move into the garage if they had been.

The youngest member of the family is Link (don't know why they spell it that way, his name is Lincoln). He turned two yesterday, on my birthday. His mother and dad threw a party for him on Sunday. So I wouldn't be left out, they had a small cake with "Chester" on it and one candle. I extinguished it with one puff. Forgot to make a wish, but what the heck.

For all those well-wishers, I had a great day, and I'm looking forward to number 85. I'll have another book out before then, if I stay off Facebook and get the writing done. So pardon me if I'm a little scarce on the Internet for a while.

Thankful for Readers

By Beth Terrell

In one of this weeks' blog posts, Nathan Bransford asked his readers (I started to say followers, but that sounded just a little too messianic) what they were grateful for as writers. As you can imagine, the responses ran the gamut, from the ability to write to supportive spouses to paper clips. My list of things to be thankful for hasn't changed much since last year. I'm still grateful for my loving husband; the support of my mom, my brother, in-laws, and countless friends; our dogs (two papillons and a Tibetan Spaniel); my laptop; my terrific critique group; Night Shadows Press, the small press that believed in me enough to reissue my iuniverse mystery; and readers--everyone who has read my book and liked it, and everyone who hasn't read my book, but reads the books of my friends and my favorite authors, thereby enabling the publishing industry to keep on rolling, warts and all.

There is nothing like hearing from a person who says, "I read your book and loved it." One of my favorites came from a woman who said she was so anxious to see what happened that she was sneaking in paragraphs at stop lights. Another said, "When I'm not reading this book, I'm thinking about the people in it and wondering what they're doing." It just doesn't get any better than that.

We need the encouragement, because, as most of us know, few writers can make a living with their writing. I read somewhere that the average income of writers falls just above that of migrant workers. Thank goodness for the likes of Stephen King, Dan Brown, and John Grisham, who pulled the average up! Otherwise, we'd be at the bottom of the heap. One writer, responding to Nathan's blog, said she'd calculated her hourly wages and come up with a figure of approximately seven cents. It's hard to retire to Maui on that.

Then one day you're working out at Curves, and the chatter among the exercisers turns to books. The woman at the next machine, a woman you've never met and who has no idea you're a writer, says, "You know what book I love? I just read it, and it's terrific." And she names your book. You carry that glow home with you. Years later, you can still pull it out of your pocket and bask in it.

So on this beautiful (albeit chilly) Thanksgiving Day, I'd like to take a moment to thank you, the readers. You're the ones who make this crazy business work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Giving Thanks

By Mark W. Danielson

Perhaps more than any other holiday, Thanksgiving is an emotional cornucopia. To many, it’s a family celebration where long-lost relatives bring enticing dishes to accompany the feast. To others, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade followed by hours of football is the highlight. For those dedicated to Christmas shopping, Thanksgiving is the prequel to the following day’s sales events. This year, some stores will be opening at Midnight, Friday morning, for those so inclined. No matter how you celebrate Thanksgiving, this harvest festival has a special meaning.

Some believe the Spanish celebrated the first Thanksgiving in 1565 in what is now Saint Augustine, Florida. The more prominent version dates back to 1621 where Pilgrims shared their bounty with Native Americans at the Plymouth Plantation. Thanksgiving is not unique to the United States, though. Canada celebrates Thanksgiving on the second Monday of October, most likely because of their earlier winter. Regardless of its history or actual date, Thanksgiving was named so we can be grateful for what we have.

Of course, giving thanks shouldn’t be limited to a single day of the year. One of my best friends turns 94 one week from now. On D-Day, 1945, he was flying a P-47 fighter over Normandy. Today, he is still flying the twin Cessna he’s owned since 1965, takes overnight hikes in the Sierra Nevada, and plays tennis most every day. As a three-time cancer survivor, he truly gets the most out of life, and for nearly three decades, has been an inspiration to me. Whenever I ask how he’s doing, he says, “I’m still taking nutrition.” What a great stance.

Then there’s my dog, Maxx, who always wakes up with a smile. No matter what happened the day before, he’s ready to face today with tail-wagging enthusiasm. You can’t help but smile when you see him in the morning.

Of course, not everyone shares my buddy’s or my dog’s positive outlook on life. Plenty of people have physical or emotional pain that deters them from wanting to roll out of bed. One recent web comment said, “Holidays are really horrible with all the extra pressure . . .” The young woman who wrote that was referring to her mother who she believed had mental issues. Given the right circumstances, we could all feel that way, but it’s a sad attitude to have.

Some people have a difficult time attending family celebrations after a loved one has passed away – especially if their death occurred near that holiday. Holidays can be quite difficult for our soldiers who are deployed overseas, and equally hard on the homeless. If you are alone on a holiday, try reaching out to help others. By doing so, no one is alone, and new friendships can be made.

Since I’m rarely home for a holiday anymore, I give thanks every day for my health, my family, and my job. I don’t need a holiday to remind me of this.

Every day, we have the choice of making it a good or a bad day. I’d be lying if I said every day was gleeful, but I do try. The world would be a lot happier if we all gave thanks for what we have instead of complaining about what we don’t.

So this Thanksgiving, enjoy your homecomings. Talk to your friends and family members as though you truly love them, and hug them as though you may never see them again. Most of all, smile at a stranger and lend them a hand. Doing so will brighten everyone’s day. Happy Thanksgiving.

Time

By Mark W. Danielson

Time is finite, and there’s never enough of it. With the exception of flying a two-day trip, I’ve been home for three weeks, and yet during that period, I have failed to accomplish all that I intended. When people ask what I’ll do when I retire from FedEx, I smile and reply that I’ll enjoy spending more time with my wife, writing, painting, playing on the lake, flying for pleasure, building and then rebuilding things, and most of all, engaging life. It’s the only way to live because we never know how much time we have left. I was reminded of that this morning when I learned that a co-worker's son died yesterday from meningitis--after falling ill four days earlier. He was a Naval Academy student, and lived a mere two decades. No doubt we can all attest that life isn’t fair.

During my time off, I completed the first draft of my next manuscript, painted five paintings, and performed countless tasks around the house. During breaks, Lyne and I walked nearly every day, enjoying a beautiful Colorado Indian Summer. I cherish the time Lyne and I have together because in the end, it’s the quality of my time that matters, not how many jobs I complete.

Tonight I start another two-week round-the-world trip; this time flying eastbound via Paris, Delhi, Shanghai, buzz around the Far East for a few days, then back to Anchorage and home. I look forward to getting airborne again, seeing a world without borders. I also look forward to having the time to edit my manuscript. A few long layovers should allow me to get through it before I return. But I’ll also regret missing Thanksgiving. You see, Thanksgiving in Japan isn’t the same as being at home with family, but that’s my life as a gypsy pilot. Then again, such disappointments help inspire believable protagonists. After all, aren’t we all a bit conflicted at times?

I should point out that there is another artist with the same name, but unlike him, I don’t sell my work. Although I’ve been painting my entire life, I’ll wait until I retire before pursuing that career. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy creating memorable works for my family members at Christmas—another holiday that I’m likely to miss. Regardless, so long as I enjoy living each day to its fullest, regardless of where in the world I am, time will always be on my side.