Thankful

First a memory that came to me this morning;

My mother and I boarded the train at Union Station in L.A. and headed north to spend Thanksgiving with my sister Sharon.  She was having a rough time.  Her very premature baby had died just a month or so before.  I was 10 years old. 

I loved the train.  I ran from car to car, meeting people on the way.  My mom and I especially liked the dining car.  Mom sat there with something to drink and her cigarettes.  I learned to play cards with a dapper old man.  The train took forever to reach Walnut Creek.  It stopped at every little burg on the way.  Mom called it a milk train. 

The scenery was great!  I had seen some of these things before, but from the train it seemed brand-new all over again.  There were bazillions of cows and farms and trees.  I couldn't get enough.  I wouldn't be surprised if my face print on the windows wasn't permanent.

When we arrived, Sharon picked us up and took us to her home.  They lived in Navy housing.  I had never seen anything like it.  White weather-beaten siding as far as the eyes could see.  The wood was only about 2 or 3 inches wide each strip.  It didn't stop for each apartment, rather ran the whole length, probably 20 or so units at a time.  Outside the back doors, there were clotheslines as far as the eye could see, with assorted clothing hanging there.  There were no fences, but a lot of grass and lots of kids.  Since there was no school, the area was packed with kids of all ages.  I stood back and watched them play.  I wasn't much of a joiner.  Besides, I felt better with adults.

Inside, Sharon had all the fixings for a great turkey dinner.  She looked at Mom and said, "I don't know what to do."  Mom shoved me in and said, "Penny will help."

So that day, I taught my big sister how to make a turkey.  I felt so grown up in my skinny frame, pulling pinfeathers from the bird, stuffing and basting.  My sister looked at me with a new respect and it was grand.