“Come on, Granddaddy. The rabbits can’t tell us to celebrate Thanksgiving.”
“In a way, they can.” He sat on the chopping stump, and I hopped on next to him. “You see, those rabbits get as fat as possible for the winter ’cause they know food’ll be hard to find, what with all the plants dying or being covered in snow. But when those hungry rabbits find a patch of food—don’t you suppose they treasure that?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “But that still doesn’t mean we should be giving thanks while Charlotte’s in the hospital and not with us.”
“Well, Pixie, don’t you think we should give thanks for a right fine hospital that’s helping your sissy get better? And shouldn’t we give thanks for what we have left?”
I wasn’t ready to admit that Granddaddy—and those dang rabbits—were probably right. All I could think of was that each Thanksgiving that rolled around left us with one less family member to give thanks for.
And I didn’t like that at all.
CHAPTER 10
Daddy left early on Thanksgiving morning to drive to the hospital to try to see Sissy. I wrote her a letter that I hoped would cheer her up, filling her in on school, Halloween, and the goings-on at the farmhouse. I wanted more than ever to visit her, but Daddy told me that until we knew we were all allowed to go and sit with her a spell, there was no point in going all the way up to Indianapolis to wave at a window.
So while he drove my letter to Charlotte, I kept busy helping Granddaddy and Grandma.
I tried to be thankful, but the entire house smelled of pie, bread, and memories. And those memories—of our family visits to the farm for the holiday, with Mama alive and Charlotte well, and us all baking pies, stuffing the turkey, and laughing the whole time—they grabbed me with a powerful hold.
I expected Grandma to point out I was being ungrateful, with my gloomy mood, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t even scold me for dropping the silverware smack on the floor when I was setting the table.
Instead, she shook her head kind of sad-like as she spoke. “How ’bout you and Granddaddy go and take that pumpkin pie to our neighbors? Ethel over there is having a hard time with her husband gone and her older boy off in the war. And while we have less than usual this Thanksgiving due to war rations, I’d be surprised if they got much food at all today.” Grandma looked in the stove at the roasting pan and shook her head again. “That bird is taking its time and won’t be done for at least another hour, so you and Granddaddy can run over there now. Isn’t her other boy in your class at school? What’s his name?”
“His name is Ricky,” I answered, like I just decided that was his official name, and I noticed Granddaddy giving me a wink.
Granddaddy made sure I put on my coat and mittens, but when I pointed out he only had on the heavy flannel shirt he wore in the winter while he worked in the barn, he shook his head. “My skin’s old and tough,” he said. “It can’t get hurt by a little chill in the air.”
Walking across the fields, dry with cracked lines etched across them, I couldn’t help but think how like Granddaddy’s face the fields were. Mama used to say her daddy was born in the fields and he’d die in the fields. And now he was starting to look like the fields. But even with the lines plowed into his face by weather and work, he was a right handsome man.
As we walked, he held the pumpkin pie in one hand and my hand in his other.
The sound of the steady crunch of our footsteps was interrupted by a screech in the sky that sounded like a scream. I looked up and spotted a hawk circling overhead.
“Look there.” Granddaddy nodded. “That hawk’s trying to get one of those fat rabbits for a meal of his own.”
I gasped and shook my finger toward the sky. “Shame on you, hawk! Go away—leave that rabbit alone!”
“But what about the hawk?” Granddaddy pointed out. “Can’t blame him, Pixie—he’s hungry too.”
I didn’t want the hawk to stay hungry, but I really didn’t like thinking about him making a meal of the rabbit. “Why’s it have to be that way?” I asked.
“Well, Pixie, that’s just the way it is around here. The circle of life.”
Granddaddy watched the hawk fly away—giving the rabbit something to be thankful for. “Life sure is funny sometimes, ain’t it?” he said. “Every day’s a lesson in beginnings and endings.”
“What do you mean?”
Now Granddaddy held my hand tight as he explained. “Two years ago, your mama and Charlotte both sat with us at our Thanksgiving table. I know you been thinking ’bout that too. And back then, we had no reason to think that’d be the last time we’d all be around that table.” He spoke matter-of-factly, not complaining. “You never know when this time is actually the last time.”
We walked on over the fields until we came to a clearing where we could see a small white house a few yards away. By then, I’d come to a conclusion about Grand-daddy’s observation. “When you think of it that way, life’s not funny—it’s downright mean.”
Granddaddy gave a half laugh. “Ah, Pixie. Life’s not mean. It’s just sometimes too short. It’s up to us not to forget that.”
“I won’t forget,” I told Granddaddy. “But it sure is hard.”
He stopped and turned to me. “I’m with you on that, Pixie. Sometimes it feels like all we can do is take a deep breath, pick ourselves up, and push on.”
Right then, a big dog came charging at us as we walked into the orchard that led to the little house. I’m not afraid of dogs, but from far away, this one looked more like a wolf. A hungry wolf. Granddaddy stopped in his tracks too.
But as the mutt got closer, we could tell he wasn’t much to be afraid of. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while, and when he got wind of the pie Granddaddy was holding, he tried to jump up but toppled over.
I reached out to pet him. “Now, that’s funny!” I told Granddaddy.
He smiled, keeping the pie out of the mutt’s reach. “See, Pixie, not deciding who someone is before they have a chance to show us who they really are must work for dogs too.”
I laughed as I petted the funny dog, who started drooling on my mittens.
“His name’s Mud.”
That was a voice I knew without looking up. Ricky stood so close to us that I was surprised I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “What kind of a name is Mud?” I asked.
“Well, Ma says I named him when I was four,” Ricky told us. “Said me and him got in the mud a lot. From what my big brother tells me, I reckon I’m lucky they didn’t change my name to that too.”