Thanksgiving brings memories of years past.
I think of friends and loved ones no longer here, their faces and voices, smiles and laughter.
Thanksgivings in Baton Rouge, Manhattan and Brooklyn, Charlotte, Nashville and Columbus, Ohio. And gatherings at home in Atlanta.
An impromptu family banquet at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City.
Walking through snowflakes in the cold past Radio City Music Hall to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Discovering a collection of Chesterton essays on the bookshelf of an Air Bnb in Nashville’s 12 South.
Playing golf with my father at Sherwood Forest, parring six straight holes.
Watching the Detroit Lions of George Plimpton and Alex Karras beat Vince Lombardi’s previously undefeated Green Bay Packers.
My grandmother’s cornbread dressing,
A night at Immaculate Conception, serving a meal to the homeless and hearing their stories, especially those of an elegantly dressed Vietnam veteran.
With the men sleeping in their cots laid out across the floor, lying down in early morning besides the tomb of the priest who persuaded Sherman to spare the church from burning.
That historical echo: the U.S. Army in Atlanta and Vietnam.
Special thanks to my Southern Bookman readers, especially Joan.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.