When LaFollette had its homecoming celebration a couple of years ago I read something in the local papers about a homegrown author, someone named Gloria Teague. I mistook her for another person, but soon realized this was not the same Miss Teague I knew from high school. I stopped paying attention along about this time. I was under the impression that this was just another Vanity Press poet with questionable talent.
Through Facebook I became slightly acquainted with Ms Teague and heard about her soon to be released, latest book. I decided to check it out and found instant gratification through the Amazon Kindle Collection (gotta love technology which allows you to shop from a spot in the woods without even a telephone connection or a television signal yet books are delivered in less than a minute via a satellite hovering 250 miles above).
Ms Teague’s writing is not what I expected. There are few people who can truly tell a story. I can write and even share a tale, but I cannot WRITE. If ever LaFollette has produced a top notch story teller that person is Gloria Teague. I predict you will hear much more of her if she keeps going. Buy her books; you will not be disappointed.
I am delighted to announce that Ms Teague has consented to submit an occasional article to lafollettenews.com. Here is her story of Thanksgiving. Enjoy.
The Good Ol’ Days
Okay, so I live in the past most of the time. My kids might utter that old standby, “It’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.” I’m a bit ashamed to admit I wouldn’t mind one bit living there. After all, it was the good ol’ days!
Another Thanksgiving just flew by me. Wow, these holidays are coming faster all the time, or is it just me? Growing up, my mother wouldn’t allow us to eat anything, and I mean anything, until Thanksgiving dinner was served, blessing requested, and her gentle nod to “go ahead and dig in!” My parents divorced with I was two so we lived with Mamaw until Mom remarried when I was six. For several wonderful years my grandmother would sneak me a biscuit with a slice of fatback on it or a stealthy scrambled egg sandwich, all while Mama was sliding the turkey into the oven or peeling what seemed to be 20 pounds of potatoes.
Food wasn’t the star attraction for us on those days; it was family and friends who had traveled for hours, just to be with us. The excitement of waiting for the sleeping familiar strangers to awaken made it difficult for a little girl to be quiet and someone would whisper harshly, “Let them sleep, Gloria, they’ve been driving all night!” I remember scampering through the house, so excited about having my family with me, the aroma of dinner wafting through the entire house, enticing my sleepy relatives from their cozy beds. When the first tousled head of hair emerged from one of the bedrooms, my holiday began.
It wasn’t just Thanksgiving, though. It could’ve been Christmas, or the 4th of July, or the third week of May…it didn’t matter the date on the calendar; just the fact that “they” had come to visit made it a holiday for our family.
Then when my mother remarried, to a man in the Air Force, webecame the familiar strangers that drove for hours (or days) to be “home” for special events. Sadly, as the years passed and everyone got older, the special events were more often funerals. The two generations before me, the very ones that made my life worth living, slowly but surely joined each other in a celestial home, waiting for the day when we would have a holiday for eternity.
So yes, I sometimes live in the past. It’s such a gentle, kind, innocently fun place to dwell. And if you want to hang out there with me, go sit on the porch swing and I’ll bring you a glass of tea.
Gloria Teague, award-winning author of Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge (about 1950s LaFollette), Beyond the Surgeon’s Touch andSafe in the Heart of a Miracle (true stories of medical miracles)www.gloriateague.com
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