"Turning Thanks"

On this Thanksgiving eve I am reflecting upon the anticipation and excitement I had for this holiday when growing up. We would get up early and make the two hour trip from our home in Georgetown, KY to my grandparent’s farm near London, KY. I always loved the activities of my grandfather’s farm. Upon our arrival we could find my grandmother busy at work in the kitchen. My grandmother was a wonderful cook. My favorite food she made on thanksgiving was cornbread dressing complete with onions and celery and spices and of course the giblets. For those of you who are unsophisticated, giblets are the edible inner organs of a foul typically including the heart, gizzard, liver and the neck. It’s the stuff you find wrapped up or bagged up and stuffed into the inner cavity of your thanksgiving bird. My grandmother always made the dressing into patties and then baked them and we would eat the leftover dressing patties all day as if they were candy. There was always fruit salad and for some reason my father received the task of cutting up the fruit. Usually we could find my grandfather at the tobacco barn where he would be stripping the cured tobacco leaves from the stalks in preparation for market. I would be there with him, helping, and enjoying the smell and the warmth of the fire in the potbellied stove. Since dinner was usually a little late on Thanksgiving we could get in a good half day of labor and work up a good appetite. Thanksgiving was one of the rare times my grandmother would get out her good table cloth and make use of her good silverware and china. It was one of the few times we had the privilege of sitting at the big table in the dinning room. My grandfather would take his place at the head of the table and we would each take the places assigned to us. My grandfather would then look at my father and say “Larry, turn thanks”. My father would pray and we would enjoy the feast.

This is the first thanksgiving in my 56 years that I will not be able to see or to make a phone call to my father. He will be at a different banquet table that I do not yet have access to. But when I sit down with my loved ones to enjoy our thanksgiving meal I am certain I will remember him when I “turn thanks”.

A Big Daddy

When I was growing up going on a vacation meant we went to visit family. We did not call it vacation we just went visiting. Vacations are something you pay for and visiting meant you got free lodging and free food. Not that we were free loaders because the same family would come and visit us and be treated to the same amenities. A few times we traveled to Indianapolis, Indiana to visit my uncle John and aunt Zuma and my cousins Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi. We were so excited when they moved to Shreveport, Louisiana because that meant we could travel to a part of the nation we had never seen before. So one summer we made our reservation. We loaded up the car and began the drive from Kentucky down to Memphis Tennessee crossing over the mighty Mississippi. We drove across Arkansas and marveled at the flooded rice fields. We drove south to Texarkana and crossed over into Texas just so we could say we had done it. From there we crossed into Louisiana and took note that for some odd reason what we called counties they called parishes. Finally we arrived at our destination where we enjoyed ourselves immensely sleeping on the floor, eating free food, touring Shreveport and just “visiting.” On Sunday we attended a Baptist church which gave uncle John and aunt Zuma opportunity to show off their visitors. It was Father’s day and as custom would have it the pastor recognized the youngest father present, the oldest father present and the father with the most descendants present. Then he announced that he was going to recognize the biggest father and asked all the dads over 200 pounds to stand up. Upon standing he asked them to come to the front where he proceeded to have each take a turn on the scales. My father was always a big man and he weighed in that morning at 237 pounds which made him the biggest daddy present that morning. My brothers and sisters and I thought that was the coolest thing ever and we dubbed our father “big daddy.” We could hardly wait to get home and tell this story. We told it to everyone in the family and to everyone in town and to everyone in church who would listen to us. At least I did. For years to come many of the people at our church affectionately called my father “big daddy.”

On September 5, just two months ago, my “big daddy” died. He was indeed a big man. He was big in stature growing larger than the 237 he registered on the scales in Shreveport many years ago. He required an oversized casket. But he was a “big daddy” in many other ways as well. He was big in integrity. You could trust him. He was big in generosity. Upon examining his checkbook register it was discovered that the last check he wrote was for a church building in Haiti. He was big in love. He was big in faith. He was big in hope. He was big in encouragement. He was big in helping others. It has been a long time since that trip to Shreveport. I think on vacations you are supposed to come home with a souvenir. But I came home with a “big daddy.”

An Old Family Seat

My Great-Great Grandfather George Cloyd owned the first horse drawn mowing machine in Laurel County, KY. I am not sure how long the useful life of the mowing machine lasted but I am in possession of the cast iron seat that came with it. My grandfather found the seat to be more comfortable than those on the other horse drawn implements he farmed with so he would exchange the seat from one piece of machinery to another. My Dad remembered using the seat himself as a young boy growing up. By the time I came along we had long since ceased using horse drawn equipment. But my Dad wanted the seat to keep as a family heirloom. I remember going with him to retrieve it. It was attached at the time to a horse drawn hay rake. We unfastened it and took it home. Dad painted it and mounted it on the deck at the back of the house. I acquired it about 15 years ago and a few years back I got Jeanette’s Uncle George to mount it in a suitable and usable fashion. I have sat in it a few times. And my children have taken their turns lounging in it as well. Frankly, it is not that comfortable. I am glad I never had to use that seat in the course of day’s work. In one sense its significance is ornamental. But I treasure it for its historical and sentimental value. It has been in the family for six generations. In that span of time there have been a lot of Cloyd bottoms in it.

Putting Away Childish Things

During the Sunday School hour this morning two eleven year old girls spoke to me about being baptized. I talked with them about their faith journey and what it meant to be a believer in Christ and the significance of baptism. I helped them understand our tradition of “coming forward” during the concluding hymn of the worship service so that together we could express their desire and allow the congregation to rejoice with them. They said they were going to do that and at the conclusion of the morning worship they walked forward together. A thirteen year old boy came as well and allowed us to rejoice with him in his decision to follow Christ. It was a good day at North Side Baptist Church. But as our worship service was unfolding today I observed a subtle action that demonstrated a great truth. I noted that the girls did not come to the front for the children’s sermon as they usually did. I smiled inside. I thought to myself, something has changed today. They have made a decision to follow Christ and that has served as a right of passage for them to sit at the back and observe the children’s sermon rather than be a part of it. They have grown up. I wish all believers could understand the Apostle Paul’s admonition that when we grow up it is time to put away childish things.