When I was a young girl growing up holidays were EVERYTHING. I remember the smells. I remember the sounds. I remember the essence. I remember the very spirit of holidays. I grew up in a small family, that consisted of my mother, my father and my little sister. But our holidays were never small and hardly ever quiet but almost always included two stops.

 

Our first stop was usually to my paternal grandparents, Poppy and Granny McClair’s house. My grandparents had a total of seven biological children and countless, “bonus children,” whether they were nieces, nephews, neighbors or church friends. Plus, more grandchildren than I can count. If I were to guesstimate I would say 20+ grandchildren, but my sister and I were the youngest of the bunch. The position of the youngest grandchildren on the family tree granted us a seat at the “grown up” table in our Sunday dresses; separated on different sides of the table, only to glare & possibly giggle at each other. Thanksgiving Dinner started with what I am sure was a 20 minute prayer… then we could finally eat. My grandmother would prepare an amazing “soulful” dinner. While we ate, the adults in my life mingled, laughed, joked and talked (at times very loudly) over dinner. While my older cousins were stationed in the kitchen having their own conversations and fun.