Here is an excerpt from a love letter I read every year at Thanksgiving. It was written on Thanksgiving Day, 1945 by my Grandfather Rev. W.W. Jones to my Grandmother, Adena Jones while he was away in the army. They were newlyweds and they were expecting their first child – my father. I am thankful!
Thanksgiving Day, 1945
…All the reams of paper couldn’t contain the mercies that I’m thankful for today, for they pass my imagination in a never-ending parade. The rain of yesterday, the bright sunshine of today: the little ponds of ice I saw outside this morning, a shelter warm as toast: memories, rich and mellow, embroidered with hearty friendship and camaraderie; enemies – and the joy of being able not to hate them; cool water from a spring on a long, hot hike; good food that makes one comfortable inside; flitting glimpses out of the past that now seems so far away, so much apart of another world that one gives pause to think – could it be so and could that have been me?
Recollections of a home and family that once was – was that another day, too? – and I piece them all together like the patterns of a kaleidoscope, some ugly colors, and some gay; for all the heritage that is mine – the good I try to use and the bad to hide away; for all the fellowship of home as it used to be; for a piece of blue granite as a headstone for a grave that in God’s inscrutable way had to be so early; for the lull of the cold wind that whistles through the eaves; for the killing frost that betokens a sleeping world; for budding trees, the yellow crocus, “the first fruits of them that slept.”…