Thanksgiving
In the grey of this early morning’s dawn with the light dusting of white blanketing the trees, memories rise up of holidays gone.
On Thanksgiving morning, we’d trek north to visit Grandpa at the lake.
I remember peering over the back seat of that old Buick leSabre as we’d come up over the last hill on Route 59 north into Antioch, straining to be the first to see St Peter’s Church steeple.
When I’d announce, “I see it! I see it!”, my brothers would argue that I couldn’t possibly see it - no way, no how.
They were right of course. I was never the first to see the point up over that hill.
The woes of defeat were short lived, however, because in five minutes we’d be at Grandpas and really,
that was all that mattered.