Little Thankgivings

The day woke up dark and the snow clouds were so heavy it never got any lighter.  It was usually cold in November in the mountains and chances were there would always be snow falling.  I loved snow.  It was quiet and the world was hushed and it provided the perfect white backdrop for cardinals and blue jays and the small red fox that occasionally appeared in the corner of my eye. It helped too when I wanted to track small critters; wherever they went, they left footprints. But that November day remained too dark and dreary for birds and little critters to be seen.

The holidays started with my birthday in mid November.  We always had family gatherings for birthdays, no matter the age, but mine was the only one in November.  We celebrated birthdays with cake and ice cream and sometimes gingerbread for mine, if Ninna had completed her Thanksgiving baking.  This particular dark snowy day happened to fall on my seventh birthday.

Dad reckoned we might have to cancel my birthday if the family couldn't get up the holler because of heavy snow.  Ninna told me birthdays could never really be cancelled, they always came around no matter what.  She said we'd just wait and celebrate my birthday on Thanksgiving.

"When do birds and critters have birthdays, Ninna?"

"Same time as you," she answered.

"And when do they have Thanksgiving?"

"Same time as you," she said.

"Then I think I'll share my gingerbread with them this year because of all the snow."

"I reckon they'd like that," Ninna said as she continued to stir the pot on the stove.  Ninna always agreed with me.

My birthday celebration was cancelled that year, just like Dad said, but a few days later when Thanksgiving came, the clouds had rolled away and though the snow was deep, the day was filled with sunshine.  The family was coming and I made my plans early.  While Ninna gathered firewood for the cook stove and Dad brought in coal for the fireplace, I gathered a handful of sunflower seeds I'd helped Mom collect and grabbed some berries from bushes outside.  Along with an extra piece of gingerbread that Ninna had given me for breakfast, I sneaked a few walnuts from the basket that sat beside the fireplace.  I stashed it all in the biggest pocket of my heavy winter coat.  The family would not be there until late afternoon so I had plenty of time.

I might have been five or six when I first was allowed to explore our side of the mountain all by myself. The stream that ran down the mountain beside my house was easy to follow and marked my boundary. There was an old split rail fence that ran beside the creek and I was allowed to follow the fence line to its end several hundred feet up the mountain behind our house. I always stayed within sight of that fence.  It ended against a rocky cliff.  The cliff was high above the creek and on top of it grew my favorite tree, the chestnut oak.

From the looks of it, I never knew if the tree was holding the rocky cliff up or if it was the big rock that kept the tree in place.  It was not only my favorite secret place (secret because I wasn't supposed to be there), it also was home to squirrels and birds and an occasional owl; sometimes little brown rabbits played beneath it.  I could stand on the rock and hold on to my tree and look down at the creek below. I could sit on it with my back to the tree and just be a part of all the critters that played around me. There were no sounds except the chatter of the birds or the fight of the squirrels when they argued over acorns. The trickle of the creek was like music.  If ever a child could feel a total spiritual connection with nature, it was on that cliff beneath that tree.  It was a magical place.

In spring trilliums and mayapples bloomed low to the ground, almost hidden under the tree. The honeysuckle bloomed in summer and in fall the leaves provided a carpet of orange sprinkled here and there with the biggest acorns I'd ever seen.  In winter high above my head, I could see nests the squirrels and birds had built in the branches and if I looked closely, there was mistletoe.  High on the mountain it was to me, as high as I had ever been, and very close to heaven.

The chestnut oak, Quercus prinus or Quercus montana (syn.) is native to the eastern United States and grows mostly on ridgetops.  It's unlike other oaks in that the bark is much thicker and the leaves are very shallowly lobed. In fall the leaves are golden orange tinged with red, the most beautiful of trees.  The acorns it produces are larger than those of most other oak trees and are valuable as food for wildlife.  In those days its hardwood was used for fencing and for railroad ties as well as for fuel; it is still considered valuable wood.  It also provides housing for many of our critters.

I looked at the glass bowl filled with fruit and nuts that my mother had placed in the center of our Thanksgiving table. It was so pretty and I decided the birds and critters would enjoy a Thanksgiving-birthday table of their own.  I wandered upstairs to Ninna's room and found a few little things, special shiny things that nobody would miss for a day or two; I decided the critters might like to see them.  As soon as Mom and Ninna were busy with cooking, I mentioned that I'd like to go feed the birds up on the hill behind the house. Ninna said she thought that was a right smart idea and told me to bundle up good because it was cold. Mama said to hurry home before the company got there and to be sure to wear my boots.  I set out for my secret tree.  I was well bundled and booted and my pockets were full as I followed the fence line.

When I got there, I cleared the snow from the rock that held my tree. I could hear the critters scurrying around in the branches above my head as I prepared their rock table with food placed in the small pieces of glassware that Ninna kept on the shelf in her room.  I knew I could come back the next day and all the food would be gone.  Come snow or shine, I had to come back the next day; I had to get Ninna's glass pieces back to her shelf.  I figured they would be fine for just one night.  After all, it was Thanksgiving and birthday all in one, and Ninna had already told me those days belonged to the critters too.

Thanksgiving evening came and the family gathered around a table piled high with food, all of it having come from the land we lived on by way of the root cellar, through the kitchen and on to the table.  Just as our ancestors had done all the years before, my family gave thanks for food and our well being. And then we finally celebrated my birthday.

"Tell us what you are thankful for," someone said to me as I opened a little pile of gifts.

"My tree," I said.  "I'm thankful for my tree."  I was smiling inside, thinking about the dinner I'd made for the critters and how pretty it was in Ninna's little glass pieces.

"What tree is that," somebody asked.

"The one on the rock; it reaches up to heaven," I said without thinking, but then I stopped.

I was speechless. I wasn't supposed to climb upon the cliff where the tree grew; the fence stopped at the edge of it and the fence was as far as I could go.  And I couldn't tell about the Thanksgiving dinner in Ninna's shiny glass pieces, that was secret, too.  I held my breath but my eyes glanced at Ninna.

I swear that woman could read my mind.  Her blue eyes twinkled and her lips quirked upward and in the silence that descended around the Thanksgiving-birthday table, she said:  "That big old cedar tree up on the hill there in the back yard. She likes to picnic in summer on the rock beside it."

I don't remember a bit of the conversation that followed; I only know it wasn't directed at me and I could almost breathe again.  I raised my eyes a time or two and looked in Ninna's direction, but she never said a thing.  Only her blue eyes sparkled. She hadn't really lied, I did picnic beside the cedar during summer.  But I knew that she knew I was talking about a different tree in a different place.

Thanksgiving and my birthday were over and the next day Ninna declared it was a fine day for a walk and reckoned she needed a breath of fresh air and some exercise. She followed behind me when I started walking the fenceline up the mountain. I knew I had some fast talking to do. Ninna never punished me, but often the wisdom of her words cut deeper than any willow switch ever could.

I was in front, leading the way, when I took a deep, brave breath and suddenly stopped then turned back to face her.  I had to get my confession over and done before she saw the glass pieces beneath my tree.

"Ninna, I have to tell you something," I whispered.

I could see the clouds coming from her lips; I could see the twinkle in her blue eyes, but my heart was pounding so loud I could hardly hear her.

"I reckon you gave your little critter friends a good dinner; I reckon it must have been right pretty, too," she said.  I realized she already knew what I'd done.  My heart hurt.  I worried that some of her glass pieces might have been broken by the critters.  She kept talking, though, soft words floating in clouds in the cold air.

"That little cup come from Germany, the first World War it was, your great granddaddy sent it home to his mama.  And the little green vase with flowers on it, well, your daddy sent it to me when he was in Japan in the next big war. The red vase was give to me on my wedding day with roses in it. Them pieces hold good memories, I reckon."

I told you her words cut deeper than any willow switch. A cold tear trickled down my cheek.  I hadn't realized she'd miss the glass pieces from her shelf; I didn't know they were treasures.  But then she said:  "I know about your tree, Honey. It was that tree I held on to when your Papa died, long time before you was born. That tree is about the closest thing to heaven around these parts, so I know all about your tree. I've left gingerbread crumbs under it a time or two myself.  Them glass pieces, they ain't nothin' but good memories, and I reckon good memories don't need no glass around 'em.  It was right good of you to set that table for your critters. They needed a Thanksgiving birthday too.  I'd like to see your tree again, and I'll help you carry the glass back home."

I could finally breathe again; I wiped the tear away and my heart eased its drumbeat in my ears.

"Ninna, sometimes I lean against that tree and I can feel its heart beatin'."

"That's love you feel, Little One.  It's your love for nature an' nature's love for you. It's all one an' the same. If you can feel it in the trees an' in the dirt, in the sun an' the sky, then that's all that matters.  You an' nature, you'll always take good care of each other."

The seeds and gingerbread and nuts and berries were all gone.

The cup from Germany, the little green vase from Japan, and the red vase from Ninna's wedding day are behind glass doors here in my home now, far away from little prying fingers, even those that mean well. They were gifts to me from Ninna long ago.

The memories I have of her words are gifts too, but her explanation of the love I felt for nature and the bond nature had formed with me through my tree was most likely the best gift she ever gave me. 

"You and nature, you'll always take good care of each other."

For that gift, I am most thankful.

~*~

Photos of the chestnut oak are courtesy of Kent Pfeiffer and can be found in ATP's database.