Thanksgiving

As we approach Thanksgiving each year, I always think back to an earlier time in my life, when life was simpler and memories deep.

My father (we are both named Alfred, though we both go by Al) is the fifth child of seven born to my grandparents, Clinton and Adelaide Bastin. Ruth was born in 1917, followed by Dorothy (Dot) and Georgia (Jo). Clinton Jr was born, then my father in 1929, followed by Roger and Kenneth.

My grandfather was an electrician and found his way to Atlanta, Georgia, after several years of fairly nomadic wanderings in the midwest. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, my dad has a tear in his eye every year when they play My Old Kentucky Home just before the running of the Kentucky Derby. I used to tease dad by pointing out, "Dad - you only lived there for six weeks!" But dad is, if nothing else, sentimental about the past.

My grandparents lived in Decatur, Georgia, the last 50+ years of their lives. Of the seven children, my dad was the only one who stayed in Decatur. We lived just one mile from my grandparents and some of my fondest memories are of spending the night with them. I developed an affinity for Dr. Pepper (how many of you remember the "10, 2, and 4" numbers on the clock that was printed on the bottles?) because grandmother always had one or two there whenever I was over at their home. I slept in the "back room," the one with two single beds in it, and I always slept comfortably knowing my grandparents were near by. I remember the breezeway between the garage and the house, where the old-fashioned roses with velvety texture gave away their fragrance when just a touch of breeze floated through the screen on the breezeway. And I always loved going out to the garage. No car, there. Just a wonderful assortment of hand tools and electric gadgets that filled a young boy with wonder. It's no wonder that I look back on those times with such fondness. I remember picking fresh mint from various spots around the house (for that perfect sweet tea that a true southerner knows how to make), sitting in the Adirondack chairs in the back yard, and watching my older cousins play baseball back in the field near the woods.

But the favorite time of the year for all of us was Thanksgiving Day. My Aunt Dorothy (Dot or Dottie) and Uncle Paul, along with their two children, lived on a farm north of Atlanta. The family always gathered there for Thanksgiving Day. My parents would load all of us kids in the car and we'd head out of Decatur. As soon as we left the old, sleepy country town of Roswell (for those of you who know Atlanta, it has grown just a wee bit since the 1950's), we'd head out into the country for the last half of the hour long drive to the farm. We always knew we were getting close when we saw the silos at the crossroads that we would turn at to head up towards Hickory Flat, the farm area that they lived in. All these years later, the farm is the only undeveloped large piece of property in a five mile radius!

We'd get to the farm and the five Bastin children would rush in the back door, where Dottie was presiding over the kitchen. The smells were intoxicating, and even with the passage of time so long ago, I can still smell the creamed corn, green beans with small pieces of potatoes in the mix, the cut corn that tasted like just picked fresh corn from my uncle's 1/2 acre garden, and those heavenly mashed potatoes bubbling in butter on the stove. Dot was a "cast-iron skillet" kind of cook and she used her cooking instruments with skill not unlike a first-chair violinist playing a Beethoven concerto. There was always that semi-frozen "green punch" we kids loved so much and the wonderful turkey, ham, and other fixin's that Dot would prepare and that other family members would help supplement on that glorious day. I should point out, however, seeing how this remembrance feels like Norman Rockwell should have painted it, that sliced cranberry sauce from the can also made its presence known that day!

The small children - myself included - would beg our oldest cousin, Aunt Dot's daughter Parrie, to let us ride ol' Gyp, my cousin's horse, Gypsy. Fortunately, she was very docile (the horse - my cousin definitely was not the docile type) and she would ride us around the farmhouse once or twice before the next cousin would "saddle up." As we went around the house, holding on for dear life as we moved at least four feet a minute - I wasn't kidding when I said ol' Gyp was, well, docile - we'd smell the aromas rising from the smokehouse and the grapevines located just 20 feet north of the house.

But the best part of Thanksgiving was seeing family. Uncle Roger and his family from Alabama, Uncle Clint and his family from South Carolina (later Pennsylvania), and those rarer occasions when the Texas cousins and Massachusetts relatives would come down for the weekend.

After dinner was over, everyone would take a nap. To this day I don't know how we managed to do that with the family being so large. And after our naps, my grandmother would sit at the piano and play selections from Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart,and Chopin. She was magic when she played her piano, just like she was magic, it seemd, with everything she did. I don't think a boy every loved his grandparents with quite the adulation that I had for them. After the concert, the adults would sit on the front porch, in the living room or dining room and talk of family, of God, of life, sharing the things for which they were thankful.

Now many of them are gone. My grandparents, of course, are long gone. They both died in their 90's. We buried my grandfather on their 67th anniversary. They were both enriched - and enriched us - by living a very full and grateful life. Uncle Roger was the first of the children to pass, followed by my beloved Aunt Dot. Jo joined the family reunion awaiting all of us just in the past few years. My Alabama cousin, Tim, a medical doctor practicing Adult medicine is, ironically, the only one of my cousins to die so far. He was a Christmas day baby, born less than three months after me, but had the tragedy of being the youngest person (at that time, anyway) ever stricken with the particular cancer that took his life.

I was at the farm last year for the first time since Emily was a baby (19 Thanksgivings ago). The area looked so different, that I drove right by the house and had to turn around to come back to it. The house was refurbished a few years ago and a small church was currently using the house as a worship center. A Friday afternoon, there was no one there. So I walked around the house, saw a few familiar sights - the well and the smokehouse were still there - but mostly I sat on the familiar cement front porch, in the quieting of the late afternoon, with the tears flowing freely as the memories rushed back.

How I wish I could see those family members again. I wish I could relive some of those Thanksgivings, without them being just a memory. As I am firmly planted in the years called middle-aged, I look back to those years long ago, at what were truly the "wonder years" of my life. And I am grateful.

I have never forgotten those memories, those family members, those times when the world seemed just a bit more innocent. And I hope as you gather with family and loved ones one this Thanksgiving day that you will remember old - or create new - memories for yourselves and your loved ones. And I hope that as you do that, you will give thanks also to the God who has sustained us in all the ebb and flow of life, in the good times as well as the bad, and shall bring us all together for the Great Thanksgiving that awaits us all.

Beginnings

One month ago yesterday, Carol and I opened the door of our new apartment to wait for the trucks to arrive carrying the various odds and ends that we had moved from Ohio. To all my friends who have known me over the years, yes, there were lots of books!

We were glad to see the crew from St. Paul's later that afternoon - we ate our lunch from Wendy's that day while sitting in the bathroom (I was sitting on the edge of the bath tub. Carol, well.....)!

We then spent the weekend without cable or internet services. Carol and I went "stir crazy" for 72 hours while we waited for the cable company to arrive on Monday. You would have thought we'd been banished to the high Gobi desert in Mongolia. It just goes to show how much we can get addicted to television and the computer. Thank goodness we two hardware illiterate people finally figured out how to set up all the wires and plugs to get the video player to work. Must Love Dogs became an academy award winner as far as we were concerned! After Monday morning - with the ability to check emails, etc. and watch a football game on TV - life became a bit more common place once again.

We have spent a good bit of time this first month just getting acclimated to our new surroundings. Of course, we have planned for and led worship. We have attended meetings, made visits, met new friends, gone to our first Conference meeting, and other things. We have gotten to know the Lehigh Valley and the countryside (including one unfortunate side trip that almost landed me in New Jersey this past Saturday).

What we have discovered is that St. Paul's UCC, Trexlertown, Emmaus, Allentown, etc. are beginning to feel like home. We continue to unpack at the apartment - it looks less and less like a storage unit and more like a place that people are living in. We continue to set up the offices at the church - we're almost done.

The people at St. Paul's have been warm, gracious, and welcoming to us. And we have discovered once again, that "home is where you hang your hat."

In the course of my 27 years of serving congregations, we have lived in Richmond, Virginia; out in a very rural area near Williamsburg; the city of Charlottesville; just outside South Bend in a small Michigan city; in a small city north of Dayton; and now Emmaus - just six miles down the road from Trexlertown and St. Paul's United Church of Christ. And you know what? The whole area is beginning to feel just like home.

We are happy to be here.