laura hough smith

There’s a photo of me taken on a Thanksgiving morning when I was in high school. I’m standing in the kitchen of the house from my childhood, wearing pajamas and a sweatshirt and tasting the cake batter I am mixing.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was on the TV in the sitting area of our kitchen. Something was in the oven, and something else was simmering on the stove.

I don’t remember much else about that day, but all these years later the memory of that day stands apart from other Thanksgivings because its normalcy is now so extraordinary. I had no way of knowing then that one day I’d want more than anything one more meal, one more holiday, one more anything with my mother and my grandmother, Mimi.

Most Thanksgivings, we’d carry several dishes to my grandmother house, where we’d find Mimi worrying over the gravy. The gravy and its consistency — too runny or too thick — were a source of anxiety. Sooner or later, she’d throw her hands in the air and release the whisking duty to my aunt or my mom. She’d shake her head and laugh with relief. Then, she’d ask my dad to carve the turkey.

There’s another picture taken at least a decade before that Thanksgiving; in this photo Mimi is standing in our kitchen, a few steps from where I was standing in the other photo. We’re celebrating someone’s birthday, but she looked the same in this photo as she did at every holiday. She wasn’t tall, and she had a small frame. In winter, she always wore pants, a blouse and a smart sweater or vest; her clothes were always perfectly tailored. Her hair was freshly curled from her weekly visit to the beauty shop. She’s laughing, and that’s why the picture reminds me of holidays at her house. Even in her 70s and 80s she had an easy laugh; I loved her sly wit.

On Thanksgiving, she’d stand in the middle of her kitchen, a little nervous until all the casseroles and sides were in their allotted chafing dishes. Then, she was ready for family banter and hearty laughs.

I thought about those days as I stood over my own sink last Thursday morning preparing lunch for my family. I was a little sad thinking about how golden and wonderful those days were. Mimi and my mom were such forces in my life that my instinct is to believe that those days with Mimi, with my mom and with my family still in tact were the best.

Yet, as I made this year’s Thanksgiving meal in my Greenville kitchen I counted these losses, but I could also hear my 2- and 5-year-olds squeal as they chased one another in circles around our house. Their laughter is the sound of angels singing, I believe.

Lollie, named for Wesley’s grandmother, and Mary Fin, named for Mimi, already have a strong sisterly bond, and this Thanksgiving I was thankful for the holidays my two little sweethearts never knew and all the wonderful ones we’ve yet to have.

I indeed lost two incredible forces of strength in 2009 and 2010, but their heaven-sent replacements are just as golden. These are the good ol’ days.