Original views on life in rural America
November 26, 2020
While I count my blessings each and every day, I have never cared for Thanksgiving. Bad memories tend to resurface.
Like how the smell of turkey roasting in the oven reminds me of three-year-old LuAnn, who was ill with influenza, tried a bite of turkey and couldn’t keep it down.
Grandma Fields understood my pain, and every year, she also baked a ham so people, -er, I could have another choice.
Simpler times then.
In 2003, my husband died from a pulmonary embolism, two days before Thanksgiving. He was 39. He had been ill for approximately six months prior to his death, yet it still shocked...