Nostalgia

Letter of November — A Writing Challenge

Childhood chaos served with a side of turkey and noodles

Grandma, cousins, and sisters — oh, my! (Image provided by author)

Lately, November in Texas has felt like late spring. Temperatures hovering in the 70s and 80s, skies as clear as blue glass, sunshine unfiltered and relentless. It’s beautiful, sure, but I can’t help grumble a little: this isn’t the brisk, leaf-crunching November I remember from childhood.

Before climate change, before the mounting stresses of adulthood, my folks would pile us into the car and drive north to my grandparents’ farm in the panhandle of Oklahoma for a family reunion. Back then, November was usually frosty cold, with the occasional dusting of snow that transformed the flat terrain into an early winter wonderland. We’d stay for a few days, which was perfect: more chaos, more fun, more time to explore.

The cast of characters was sizable: three uncles, two aunts, three sisters, six cousins, and occasionally a great-uncle or aunt who would drop in like an extra scene in an already crowded play. For us cousins, the farm was a vast playground. We roamed freely, jumping off hay bales like stuntmen in training, chasing chickens, and playing hide-and-seek. We’d duck into the granary or my grandpa’s truck, giggling while trying not to give away our hiding spots.

There was wrestling, too. The boy cousins — myself included — would tussle and spar, showing off for the girls. Sometimes the older boys went a little too far, leaving a welt or two, and the younger ones, squealing and crying, would run straight to their folks for justice. We’d get in trouble, scolded and sent to the sidelines, only to start the whole process again an hour later.

At some point, while the adults were distracted by raucous conversation, we would usually try to pilfer a cigarette from an aunt or uncle. We were city slickers playing at being outlaw country boys — though most of our bravado didn’t survive the first cough.

We also “operated” the farm, mounting the combines like thrones and imagining ourselves seasoned planters, expertly running the place. None of us city slickers had the slightest clue — but we sure looked confident while doing it.

After the meal and generous naps, the grown-ups would break out the cards and dominoes. One of my uncles laughed like a drunken Desi Arnaz, and we kids would imitate him, sending the adults into spasms of laughter — even my uncle thought it was funny, and his guffaws, combined with ours, shook the walls. At night, we kids slept down in the basement. “Slept” is a generous term — we stayed up talking, reading comic books with flashlights, telling jokes, and plotting our next day’s adventures.

And the food. Oh, the food! A single meal could have fed the population of a small town — plus a few lost tourists. Golden-roasted turkey, skin crisp and glistening, sat beside a massive ham, edges caramelized and sweet. Huge bowls of savory sage dressing; mashed potatoes infused with fresh butter; cranberry sauce that made your mouth pucker and sing at the same time; yams roasted with brown sugar and cinnamon; Jell-O salads; green beans with bacon; and yeasty rolls piled high, steam curling off the tops like morning fog over a field. Oven-fresh pies perfumed the room with apples, cherries, and pecans, their flaky crusts crackling under the knife. Warm cookies, dotted with raisins or chocolate chips, vanished the instant they emerged from the oven.

Then there was the wild game — pheasant, duck, and venison that one of my uncles would bring in triumphantly, having bagged it all himself. My grandmother, the real hero of the event, would make homemade egg noodles swimming in a thick chicken broth. We’d pour that over the turkey and mashed potatoes and call it perfection. And yes, there were always tons of leftovers to keep us fueled for the next day’s antics.

Those Novembers were warm in a different way than the Texan warmth of late autumn. They were full, messy, loud, sticky with yams and pecan pie filling, cheeks kissed by frosty air and noses tingling from the cold, unrestrained laughter, and the occasional scream when a cousin misjudged a hay bale jump. But they were perfect in the way only raucous family memories can be perfect.

Now, when I step outside and feel the unusual fall warmth, I think of those days — the farm, the frost, the snow dusting the barn roof, the games, the laughs, the basement adventures, the food, the cousins, the climbs and tumbles — and I’m grateful. Grateful that my childhood Novembers smelled like turkey, hay, fresh comic book pages, and a little bit of mischief.