Opinions

As my cousin read aloud our Grandmother’s Brunswick Stew recipe, I enjoyed all the imagery it evoked, not to mention the aromatic recollection of that stew which was prepared with chicken, pork, tomatoes and corn in a turn-of-thecentury kitchen that always smelled heavenly. Interestingly enough, the recipe begins with, “Wring the chicken’s neck…” That’s when I usually walk away from the memory and wonder if somebody—anybody—could make me some Brunswick Stew, or Camp Stew, as we usually called it…without the manual labor my grandmother invested.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, but between the large, delicious meals and the distractions, it’s easy to forget how much we have to be thankful for. Sadly, many have forgotten or maybe they have never known the history of human suffering, along with the gratitude the Pilgrims expressed. It’s recorded that the new colony was focused on giving God thanks for His blessings and protection as William Bradford is quoted, “Being thus arrived in a good harbor, and brought safe to land, they fell upon their knees and blessed the God of Heaven who had brought them over the vast and furious ocean, and delivered them from all the perils and miseries thereof, to again set their feet on the firm and stable earth. Thus, out of small beginnings, greater things have been produced by His hand that made all things of nothing, and gives being to all things that are; and, as one small candle may light a thousand, so the light here kindled hath shone unto many, yea in some sort to our whole nation; let the glorious name of God have all the praise.”

Don’t believe the hype.

I bring you today the sounds of a Thanksgiving dinner, translated— as closely as possible--to paper. Please tell me if you hear anything familiar. “Who didn’t wipe their feet?” grandmother asked, just as food preparations were reaching a crescendo. “Now, look at this dirt, right here by the table! Somebody get the vacuum cleaner.” Immediately, cousins leapt for the broom closet and their guilt was apparent. “Where’s the potato casserole?” asked the college sophomore, scanning the sumptuous buffet of vegetables and meats, while holding his empty plate.

My love interest with trees began when I was barely 5. My family moved into a new, red-brick home with a huge yard, and my father--who was apparently a direct descendant of Johnny Appleseed--proceeded to fill that yard up with plum trees, apple trees, pear trees and a semi-circle of mimosas in the back yard which leaned gracefully over flower beds filled with roses. He scavenged nearby woods for two tulip poplar trees which now tower to 100 feet Before any actual brick and mortar was placed on the property, he outlined the back yard with towering pine trees, flanked either side of the house-to-be with a magnolia, and put a baby pecan tree in the center of the front yard. On the sides of the front yard, he planted dogwoods in pink and white, with gardenias hovering underneath.

When it comes to favorite sounds in the middle of the night, there are many. Thunder and rain pelting the roof or windows nearby are not bad. The doorbell is bad, really bad. Dogs barking is annoying, only if it means having to get up to investigate.

There are times when Life moves along at a pretty predictable pace--so much so that you get rocked into some sort of complacency about the goodness which surrounds you.

Opinions about the Covid-19 pandemic varied greatly around the globe, though anything viewed as doubtful could get the author in trouble faster than small-town gossip. In fact, just asking questions about the virus often drew “conspiracy theorist” to those who were uncertain. Even today, finding objective views about the “public health emergency” are not free from political blame. Reading about it on Wikipedia still reveals plenty of finger pointing at Donald Trump. One does not need to be a doctor, have ears like Anthony Fauci or have stayed at a certain hotel chain to see the inconsistencies the media spread as truth.

If you don’t go to church, you won’t understand this column. I grew up in the First Baptist Church of my small Alabama town. Since my father was one of the pillars of the church, we were there as a family every time the doors opened. When I came of age, I was placed in the Girls Auxiliary which everyone just called GA’s. In GA’s, you learned about missionaries (especially Lottie Moon), Bible scriptures galore and opportunities to help at home. Once a year, we held a banquet which was always decorated in the GA colors of green and white, and I should recall what those stood for, but I don’t. I’m certain they represented the Queenly qualities which all GA’s aspired for, with Queen Esther as the female role model. Purity, honesty, faithfulness--it’s hard to argue with any of those.

London’s Buckingham Palace, the home of the monarch, has the most recognized changing of the guard in the world. Three times a week a formal ceremony involving sentries – soldiers with guard duties, are relieved by a new batch of sentries. Tourists love to witness the King’s Guard in their iconic red tunics and bearskin hats. Elsewhere, when there is a changing of the guard, it can bring a succession or a handover of leadership. It can be welcomed and it can often be a season of transition that is as awkward as a blind dog in a butcher shop. Change is inevitable, and the reshuffling of responsibilities is sometimes tenuous. A new president, business owner, coach or a person in charge, the mix of emotions runs the gamut. The outgoing person and the incoming have many different points of view, though the new person at the wheel – even with all their best-made plans, will soon have to deliver leadership.