The next morning, Thanksgiving Day, I took this photograph out the south window. Then I baked anadama bread and finished canning the rest of the applesauce (16 pints). I thought about past holidays -- Gram Dorrington's apple pies, big and small family gatherings over 60-plus years, awkward times, unhappy times, old and new traditions, the many warm and loving memories.
I thought about change -- how our landscapes change year by year. Snow. Misty, brown woods. Frost, rain, a pale November sun.
The people change, too. So many are gone. Some have left-- geographically and otherwise. The elders have died and the next generation moves into the places left empty at the table, the kitchen, the heart.
My joy comes when I pack the warm loaves of bread and walk up the road with Barry. We pass the small graveyard, the huge bull pines, horses, deer track, woods that stretch on either side of us. The skies are darkening, but the lights shine from Ellen's windows. We join old and new friends and neighbors at a long table by the open fireplace where we share a feast and fellowship in a brave new world.