PART8: The Thanksgiving Table — The Pie Baker Who Was Never Invited…

PART8

Then I went into the kitchen.

The house was quiet.

I put on coffee.

I took down my mother’s recipe.

And began.

Turkey.

Stuffing.

Green beans.

Mashed potatoes.

Gravy.

And, of course, pies.

Four pies.

Then six.

Then eight.

My son arrived at seven carrying a folding table.

“Mom, where should I put this?”

I pointed toward the dining room.

“Against the wall.”

He looked around.

“How many people are coming?”

I smiled.

“Enough.”

He laughed.

At eight, my granddaughter arrived.

At eight fifteen, Melissa.

At eight thirty, her parents.

Then neighbors.

Then two of my church friends.

Then my son’s old college roommate and his wife.

Then, unexpectedly, a young couple from Hartley’s.

The bakery had closed for the day, but they had stopped by to give me flowers.

My house became louder.

Warmer.

Messier.

Exactly the way a holiday should be.

At ten, I looked around the room.

There were more than fourteen people.

There were twenty-two.

And we were running out of chairs.

My son laughed.

“Mom, we have a problem.”

I looked at the crowd.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have enough seats.”

I smiled.

“Then we make more.”

So we brought in dining chairs from the kitchen.

A piano bench.

Two stools.

One folding chair from the garage.

And finally, an old wooden chair I had kept in the basement for years.

It belonged to my husband.

The chair had a small crack near one leg, so I rarely used it.

My son carried it upstairs.

“Who sits here?”

I looked at it.

My throat tightened.

“David sat there when he was a boy.”

CONTINUE READING PART9