When I look back at photographs of Thanksgivings Past, I always laugh at the line-up. There we are on Aunt Hazel’s porch, standing like majorettes in a row. We’ve turned to the left to look slim, with interlocking arms to look familiar. It’s the aunts, the girl cousins, and me, in my teenage years. Everybody has on something brown, green or orange.
We are laughing; we have been laughing most of the…
