By Thanksgiving, we were ready to invite everyone.
Seventeen family members gathered at our farmhouse that Thanksgiving.
Kim brought her boys.
Jeff carved the turkey.
Stacy helped carry dishes.
Judy moved between the kitchen and dining room, making sure everyone had enough food.
Nate kept looking around with quiet amazement.
After years of renting, he was finally standing inside a home we’d bought and restored ourselves.
We arranged the dining table in the room beside the kitchen.
It wasn’t the fanciest room in the house.
But it was special.
Opal had been born there in 1937.
And now, nearly ninety years later, her family had gathered in that same room.
On the table sat a bowl of rhubarb sauce.
Judy had prepared it using plants from beside the old cistern.
The same plants Opal’s mother had put into the ground in 1931.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what they’d survived.
