Though my memories of childhood Thanksgivings in Central Illinois are not nearly as vivid or detailed with family lore as Christmases, they are fond all the same. We didn't go over the river and through the woods to be with the extended Jones Family in Monticello, but rather stayed in Danville and celebrated with my mother's family. Until the late 1950's the big feast was held at the Swisher Ave. home of my grandparents, Chester and Nora Baum. But they had made the decision to spend their golden Thanksgivings in Pompano Beach, Florida rather than endure the unpredictable midwestern weather of late November. So from then on we were left to our own devices. We gathered with the Glen T. Smith family either at our house or theirs. Helen Smith was Mom's sister. It was always fun and festive. Uncle Smitty was the expert of all expert turkey carvers and we always had plenty of food to take home or send along as the case might be.  Occasionally we went down to the family homestead in Indianola to be with our Sandusky cousins. They were always more fun than anyone I knew. But all of that said, there will always be one Thanksgiving from my childhood which I can never forget.

It was a week which began innocently enough. I had just turned 13 on November 17th. Now it was the 22nd. Mother and Dad were down in Florida helping my grandparents settle in to their winter digs while I was allowed to stay with my pal Scott Golden on Fletcher Ave. His house was adjacent to North Ridge Junior High School where I was in eighth grade. Everything was going fine. It was Friday with a fun weekend ahead. Then, after lunch, while I was in Art Class, the world changed and went into slow motion. There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Allison, the librarian, whispered something to our teacher, Mrs. Gillis. She composed herself, and gave us the news that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. Soon the same information came over the loudspeaker from Mr. Yeazel, the principal. School was dismissed with the news of his death. I ran through the woods on a shortcut to Goldens, slipping into a cold ravine on the way. When I got to my friends house, his mother was crying in the living room. All I could think about was how awful it was to be without my parents when the world seemed to be ending. We called my mother in Florida and she promised they would fly back to Danville as soon as possible. I was so devastated and lonely.

Mom and Dad arrived at the Danville airport on Saturday night. I was never so glad to see them. We said goodbye to the Goldens and headed home. The next few days were pretty much spent in front of the television as our shocked and grief stricken nation mourned and processed. On Sunday, Dad shouted that Lee Harvey Oswald had just been shot. Mother and I were in the kitchen and came running out to see the murder replayed in front of our eyes. The next day was President Kennedy's funeral at St. Matthews Cathedral. We all watched John-John's salute. And then it was over.

Thanksgiving was only three days away. My friends in the neighborhood had started to do things outside again. There was some touch football and shooting hoops in Gary Cox’s driveway. School would be out until the next Monday. But we were all subdued. The idea of celebrating seemed out of the question. Nobody felt much like a big family gathering after all we had witnessed. So, our decision, like that of so many other families, was to keep it simple and stay at home. The 90 minute Macy Parade filled in the space where Monday's funeral procession to Arlington had been dominating our living room. Like the huge Donald Duck balloon that year, we were a bit deflated. Three people gathering around a turkey seemed rather bleak. Then my Dad, standing at the head of the table, gave us his message. It is one I'll always remember. He said;

This has been a hard week for everyone. But we will be okay. We have so much to be grateful for. We have a great country where women and men like Jack Kennedy fight and die for our freedom and way of life. Thanks to them we are safe. We have a warm home, good food, and our nice friends and family. Most of all, we have each other. Things won't be exactly the same after what happened in Dallas. But we will be okay.

And the clouds seemed to lift a little. We went down to the Sandusky/Stines on Saturday. There was a big party as always. With loving arms around us, we could be happy once again.

For the first time in history, an entire nation grieved together. It was on live TV. By grace, Thanksgiving followed. It was just the bandage we all needed to bind our wounds and carry on. Perhaps that's the simple message of this American holiday every year. Things may be rough, or even tragic. Empty chairs can be found around many tables. There have been other losses and disappointments. But then comes Thanksgiving. Ever since that first harvest celebration in 1621 of 53 Pilgrims and 90 Native People, we have been looking to the promise of new possibilities while thanking God for our rich blessings. We put aside our troubles in favor of gratitude and hope. Dad was right. With this spirit and attitude to guide us...We Will Be Okay.