When I can't think of anything to write

This time of year, I often have trouble finding something to say in my blog.  I am not a fan of the winter holidays, and I celebrate as little as I can while trying not to ruin this time for others.  I like the family gatherings, although this year Thanksgiving is approaching far too fast and I'm not prepared mentally.

I take solace remembering the times all my mother's family gathered at Grandma's house for the holidays.  The little house where she raised her five children had four rooms downstairs (two of them tiny bedrooms), and an upstairs that was one big room.  On Thanksgiving, the kitchen aromas would make your mouth water; the room was alive with aunts washing dishes and fussing with dinner as they chattered away.  Most of the men smoked back in the early fifties, so they'd go out to smoke if the weather permitted and discuss farming problems, or which tractor or implement was the best or the price corn was bringing that year.  This was when men all wore hats, so many old black-and-white photos show them wearing hats.  

My cousins and I tried to stay out of the way, except for Carolyn, two years older than me; she was always in the kitchen with the women, helping any way she could.  She never was much for playing.    

I suppose Grandma's living room was roomy enough for her family when her children were growing up, but with twenty to thirty people there for Thanksgiving, it was definitely close quarters.  In winter there was a big heating stove that took up one whole side of the room.   In my youngest years, that stove was a wood-burner.  Later it was either fuel oil or propane, I'm not sure which.  Two of my uncles lived near Grandma: They would move the big stove out in springtime, then back in when autumn came.  They also cut the wood for her stove.  She didn't drive, so uncle Leo and his family took her with them to shop in Bethany.  My cousin Betty told me that when Grandma got her groceries she would also buy bread and baloney for all of them and they'd eat baloney sandwiches on the way home.  As Betty finished the story, she smiled and said, "It was so good!" 

Simple times. 

I remember climbing on Grandma's woodpile every time I was there.  There are certain things a kid has to do each time they go to Grandma's house, right?    

Sometimes on Thanksgiving the adults would put everybody's name in a hat, pass it around, and draw names to find out who they were going to buy a Christmas gift for.  Grandma managed to give a gift to every one of her grandchildren, usually a pair of socks and a candy bar together in a package.  That doesn't sound like much, but all she had was the money she got for her eggs, the quilts she made and sold for a pittance, and her "old age pension", which wasn't much.  Medicare was a bit late for her; it started around the time she died.

I need to remember those good times, so thank you for allowing me to reminisce.  I know I jumped around from one thing to another in a rather awkward fashion, but it's all I have today.