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Reflections November 2014

A New Take on Thanksgiving

By Teresa Ambord

When Dad and Polly announced we were moving to the country, I was not at all happy. But a summer of roughing it, of pulling together as a family to raise a cabin out of the forest floor, of celebrating things we’d always taken for granted – like running water and electricity – made our lives better, forever. Never was the season of Thanksgiving so meaningful, before or since.

Growing up, I never gave Thanksgiving much thought. That is, until the year Dad turned my sisters and me into country girls. Dad was part of “the Silent Generation,” born from 1925-1945, which included the Great Depression and World War II. Some say this generation was silent because they worked hard and kept quiet, a pretty good description of my father. He used his muscles more than his mouth.

But Time magazine erroneously labeled the Silent Generation “unimaginative” and “unadventurous.” They could not have been more wrong about the generation, and especially about Dad. From his youth, Dad was always inventing new ways to turn one nickel into two. If he couldn’t build or fix something himself, he persisted till he could. That usually involved duct tape or WD-40 – or both if a problem was really tough.

We girls thought Dad could do anything. But even we were surprised at what happened in the summer of 1971. That’s when he and our stepmom, Polly, announced they’d bought property in a forested area, and we were selling everything to move there. The plan was for Dad to build a cabin… in the middle of the woods. Many probably thought that sounded crazy. We girls didn’t know it then, but Dad’s health was at risk because of the stress of city life and the rising crime rate there. He longed for us all to have a simpler life.

Soon, the house and businesses were sold, and all our worldly goods were packed onto two trucks. Then, we hit the road. The farther north we drove, the fewer cities and towns we saw, as they were replaced by trees and more trees. After two-and-a-half days driving, the paved road became a rock road which wound through even thicker trees. Finally, we came to a stop, and Dad called out, “We’re here!”

I was stunned, because we were literally in the middle of a forest. No visible neighbors, no real road, no water, and nowhere to plug in my hair dryer. Only my father could look at these dense trees and envision a cabin rising from the forest floor. But that is exactly what happened… eventually.

Within minutes of arriving he opened the back of one truck, and pulled out a pre-fab outhouse. He’d built it in our garage in the city, then took it apart for reassembly later. He’d even painted a blue half-moon on it. Dad was no dummy. He lived with four females. He knew that soon after arriving at the property, we’d be asking where the bathroom was. So he quickly assembled the outhouse, and dug a hole.

The next day, we began clearing a space for the cabin. For six weeks, we lived in a ten-man tent, cooked on a Coleman stove, and hauled water 19 miles from town in big milk cans. Dad had brought tools, of course, and a homemade cement mixer and a small generator for running his power tools. Whenever we needed more lumber or supplies, we had to make the drive through the trees, into town.

To Dad. a trip to the nearest tiny town was a delay. But to us girls, it was a joy. Since there was no mail delivery, we greatly anticipated going to the post office to get letters from home. Then we’d go next door to Boss’s General Store for an ice cold Coke. No soda ever tasted so good as a Coke from Boss’s on a hot day that summer. At night we read by lantern light, or played cards. And day by day, the cabin slowly materialized.

There were setbacks in building, of course. The biggest came when Dad fell from a ladder, shattering his leg. But even then, construction didn’t come to a full stop. While Dad was confined to a chair, he directed the work of a teenage boy who he hired to help (and who was later adopted into our family). You can bet, the moment Dad’s doctor switched him to a walking cast, he was right back out there swinging a hammer.

After Labor Day, school started, and we were still living in the tent. With the nights growing cold and rain on the way, Dad began to worry. So as soon as possible, we moved into the unfinished cabin, still without power or water. But we had walls!

As the holidays grew closer, the building continued, though slowly. Dad and Polly were making friends in the area, including a plumber, a carpenter, and an electrician. They’d all built their own forest homes, and understood the challenges, though I doubt they roughed it quite as much as Dad did. When time permitted, they would help Dad lay pipes, wire the house, or whatever was needed.

Then, one glorious day, Dad called us all into the bathroom where we stood in a semi-circle around the new toilet and cheered the first ceremonial flush.

Our carpenter friend built custom cabinets for Polly’s kitchen, in exchange for some mechanic work. Another cause for celebration!

Electricity took much longer, so on those dark fall nights, I continued to do homework by lantern light. Then, just before Thanksgiving, Dad came in the house, called us to attention, and flipped a newly installed switch. And… there was light! Later that evening, we heard some terrible singing, trudging up the dark road in the rain. It was all those friends who had helped. They were singing “Detour, there’s a muddy road ahead, detour!” And they brought a cake, decorated with a real light bulb.

When Dad and Polly announced we were moving to the country, I was not at all happy. But a summer of roughing it, of pulling together as a family to raise a cabin out of the forest floor, of celebrating things we’d always taken for granted – like running water and electricity – made our lives better, forever. Never was the season of Thanksgiving so meaningful, before or since.

Dad’s generation may be labeled “silent.” But unimaginative? Unadventurous? Untrue. People like Dad were not big talkers. They had work to do and they didn’t quit till the job was done and done right. Our country is better by far because of the Silent Generation.

 

The Potato Soup Mystery Solved

Soon after Dad and Polly moved us to the beautiful Fall River Valley in far northern California, someone gave us a welcome-to-town gift. It was a burlap sack of 100 pounds of potatoes, grown right there in the valley. We enjoyed those potatoes, fried, baked, mashed, and best of all, in Polly’s potato soup. The only problem with that soup was, she didn’t make it often enough to suit us girls.

Then suddenly, she did. We were puzzled, but thrilled when, several days a week, we’d come home from school to find a hot pot of potato soup, made with green onions and real cream, bubbling on the stove. We ate it with a big green salad, and buttered chunks of Polly’s crusty homemade bread. It never occurred to us to wonder why, out of the blue, Polly was making our favorite meal so often.

It wasn’t until we were adults with families of our own that we figured out the potato soup mystery. The original plan when we left the city was that we’d live off the proceeds of the house and businesses we’d sold, and Dad would not look for work until the cabin was built. I doubt we had any health insurance at that point. Then Dad broke his leg, and later, Polly needed emergency surgery. There went the nest egg! Looking back, I guess that explained why Dad took a job in a local mill and had to finish the cabin a bit at a time on weekends.

Putting two and two together, we sisters finally realized that our potato soup winter was really Polly’s way to feed us when money was tight. But Polly, with her playful nature, allowed us to believe we were having one long celebration, and the guest of honor was potato soup. Never once did they let on that they were having problems.

These days, some people run to the food stamp office or max out their credit cards when they run low on money or don’t have the foods they prefer. Typical of their generation, Dad and Polly just tightened their belts, threw some more potatoes and onions in the pot, and worked even harder. And eventually things got better.

 

Teresa Ambord is a former accountant and Enrolled Agent with the IRS. Now she writes full time from her home, mostly for business, and about family when the inspiration strikes.

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