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Alive & KickingA Four-year-old Discovers Being Thankful |
The first time I ever remember experiencing a torrent of thankfulness, I was four years old and the year was 1938.
My Mom, Dad, two sisters and I were living at the end of a country road with my father’s parents while a new home was under construction nearby.
We were located in Oregon’s big timber country in the most rural setting you can imagine. No electricity, no phone, one faucet of cold water in the kitchen from a spring close by, an outhouse forty yards from the house, a wood-burning stove for heat and cooking.
Baths were taken in a galvanized wash tub, but only once a week. The tub sat on the kitchen floor in front of an open oven for warmth. Girls first, then boys, next women and finally the men … that was the order of bathing, and we all used the same bath water!
My older sister walked 1.7 miles to school, which was the social center for the ten or so local families. We were poor, but everyone else was poor, too. We had no municipal services and no fire station.
One Sunday in late October of 1938, our extended family of seven left for Sunday School and church in our 1929 Model A Ford delivery van. After church we were invited for lunch and stayed the afternoon with friends, then started for home on the dusty roads after evening service.
A mile-and-a-half from home, we noticed low clouds strangely aglow over our isolated home in the hills. FIRE!
Dad doubled his speed on the rutted road. Granddad exploded with worry—his horses were in the barn. Grandma thought it was the house. Faster! Faster!
We were drawing closer and Granddad relaxed; he could see it was just the house—his horses were safe! Then Grandma was back in the fray.
It was a big fire; only two of the walls were left standing when we arrived, and they crashed down within minutes.
It was a complete loss: 800 quarts of canning—gone; my tricycle—gone; my bed—gone; my security—gone, all because of a faulty chimney. Where would I sleep?
My Dad held my hand as we paced back and forth between the hot fire and the outhouse. My Grandma passed us, for we were all on the same path, walking back and forth. She was exclaiming over and over, “Praise the Lord!”
Dad heard her and replied, “Woman, this is no time to give thanks!” She replied, “No one was lost in the fire!”
The fire had begun to die down when we gathered around an old steamer trunk stored in a shed close by; all the adults seemed tense as Granddad lifted the lid. It was mostly filled with dried beans from the large garden we’d had that summer.
He scooped a handful to his face, smelling them. I sensed despair when he said with finality: “Scorched!”
Without beans, we will starve, I thought.
Late that night my immediate family left in the old Ford, bound for my other Grandma’s home in Washougal, Washington some 100 miles away across the Columbia River.
The raging fire, loss of our home, no place to sleep, and a lack of food were heavy on my four-year-old mind as we knocked on my Grandma Howard’s front door in the early morning darkness. She came to the door with sleepy eyes, dressed in her long white nightgown and puffy nightcap.
Surprised to see us, we explained our troubles. She simply spread her arms wide and said, “Well, you just all come and live with me!”
And that was that.
As an old man, now, my eyes still mist with gratitude, remembering the love and thankfulness that flooded my soul.
Joy comes by living a thankful life. Happy Thanksgiving!
Guest columnist John Cooke taught high school biology for 30 years and is pleased to share his insights on the world—and on the human experience—with our readers.