"Over the river and through the woods, To Grandmother's house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, Over the white drifted snow."
A couple of my friends were discussing their Thanksgiving plans a few weeks ago and, when asked, I replied that at least I wouldn't have to shoot Thanksgiving dinner this year. You can imagine the astonished looks and laughter that followed but I wasn't kidding.
Thanksgiving day in West Virginia meant that a couple of my aunts and uncles arrived either the night before or about daylight with their .22 caliber rifles. Along with my dad and grandpa, they set out to hunt Thanksgiving dinner. It was usually a cold, foggy, drizzly day – perfect for hunting. If they were lucky, they came home with several rabbits and squirrels. Deer and wild turkeys were not plentiful in that place at that time.
Meanwhile, Mom and Grandma killed, plucked, and otherwise prepared a couple of chickens to go along with the wild game. The meal was filled out with vegetables they had canned during the summer and a couple of pies made from canned apples, blackberries, or peaches. Turkey? Nope. Cranberries? Nope. Stuffing? Nope. Pumpkin pie? Nope. Think turnips, carrots, beets, green beans, and mashed potatoes. We ate what we grew.
Today, I can't imagine eating a squirrel. I do have to admit that I loved it at the time. In fact, I preferred it to rabbit. We did not think it odd to see carefully cleaned squirrel heads resting on a platter. My brothers and I argued about who got to claim them if there weren't enough to go around. We thought there was something very special about squirrel brains.
This year, we will have the usual turkey and dressing at our house along with three kinds of cranberry sauce because everyone has their own personal preference. I'm now the grandmother so Scott and Greg will come to our house but there will be no snow. After all, we live in Georgia. Our friends, Brenda and Tom Flood, will be our guests but they aren't expected to hunt meat for dinner. They will, however, come over the river (the Chattahoochee) while Scott and Greg will drive 2 ½ miles through well-groomed subdivisions. There are no woods left near Atlanta, Georgia.
Although times have changed, I have many things to be thankful for. Among them is the fact that I don't have to hunt for my dinner or kill and pluck a chicken.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and family!
P.S. Above is a picture of my little brother, Johnny, learning how to skin a squirrel at age two. Or was it a rabbit?
