Over the River and Through the Wood*

Over the river and through the wood to Grandmother’s house we go . . . or, in my case, over the
mountains and across I-64 to Embassy Suites I go (followed by the actual day at Cousin Betsy’s, lest you begin to pity me) . . . these days, it is the grandmothers that often do the traveling and that’s okay too . . .

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through white and drifted snow . . . alas, my ‘horse’, a turbo-charged Impreza, most definitely does not know the way (although mapquest.com does, and if I had GPS, it certainly would – or maybe not – how can technology that sees from the skies still not know where a road is simply because it crosses woods and mountains?)  and oh, how I sometimes envy those folk of old who could set the horse on the familiar course and take a snooze along the way . . . and while I love the white stuff, trust me when I tell you, driving through mountains covered in it is not for the faint of heart and is nothing to sing about . . .

Over the river and through the wood to have a full day of play . . . or rather to have a day full of watching people who are paid to do it -- play – football – but I’ll be sitting in the other room talking and laughing and catching up . .

Oh, hear the bells ringing ting-a-ling-ling, for it is Thanksgiving Day . . . or rather Thanksgiving Eve (if there be such a thing-ting-a-ling) after the evening worship, car loaded as I set out alone to cross those mountains, yet accompanied by the souls of all my Thanksgivings past and present, weather permitting, as I wonder yet again when I do not spend Thanksgiving at home why I insist on this evening service attended by so very few instead of taking the week off (as I say I am doing every year) and just head on home in the daylight, for I do not really like night travel very much (a sure sign of aging) but will have the smell of pies to keep me company along with all those souls along the way . . .

Over the river and through the wood – now Grandmother’s cap I spy . . . well, I am the Gran and it’ll be my gloves and scarf and fogged glasses that are espied as we all gather round each other, hugging and laughing in the sheer joy of being together one more time . . . or not – it may be quite late and I might just slip into my bed in the hotel, but no worries, the jostling-gathering-laughing-hugging-loving will happen – just not tonight . . .

Hurrah for the fun!  Is the pudding done?  Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!  Since I’m bringing the pies (pumpkin and pecan), they’ll sure be done – just hope they weather the trip and that I don’t succumb to temptation and pull off the road somewhere between here and there on the burm of the interstate with trucks whizzing by, not knowing what treats lie within or they’d surely stop to share, as I scarf down the pies myself and roll in to desperately search for some suitable substitute at the local 7-11 . . . I won’t, really, but I’ll think about it . . .

Over the mountains and across the interstate to Thanksgiving and family and love I’ll go . . . see you there.


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*"Over the River and Through the Wood" is a Thanksgiving song by Lydia Maria Child. Written originally as a poem, it appeared in her Flowers for Children, Volume 2, in 1844. The original title of the poem is, "A Boy's Thanksgiving Day".  It celebrates her childhood memories of visiting her Grandfather's House. Lydia Maria Child was a novelist, journalist, teacher, and wrote extensively about the need to eliminate slavery. Wikipedia