Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving Day with Mary's sister and her family at their ranch south of Mandan. The drives in the country to their place always satisfy me when I take notice of little things. An east wind pushed tumbleweeds bouncing across the road in front of our car. (Cares of the past are behind, nowhere to go, but I'll find - just where the trail will wind, drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.") A flock of geese rested in a stubble field. With little cold weather here, they haven't felt the need to fly south yet. A herd of cattle walked across a dry pasture and each hoofstep kicked up a little cloud of dust. Seeing the little things of the fabric of life seems to fit in well with Thanksgiving.
The only thing I missed seeing yesterday was lefse. I cannot fault my sister-in-law for that since German blood runs in her veins, but the thought of my Grandma Sandvig's lefse at Thanksgiving came to mind. She had few of today's conveniences, but she knew how to make lefse on that wood cookstove in her kitchen. Into this scene comes Grandpa strolling to the stove, lifting the lid of the firebox, and spitting a big stream of Copenhagen juice into the flames. It would snap and crack when it hit the hot coals, Grandma would holler at him, and he would amble away giving no sign that he heard what she said. They kept a milkcow, and I remember spreading homemade butter on that warm lefse. Show me anything better than that!
The memories of family gatherings and Thanksgiving Day sit strong in my mind, those of the far past and those of yesterday. Good food always waited for us on the table, and a mighty satisfied feeling came over me after I ate my fill.
