From www.DelancyPlace.com, which emails out excerpts of interesting books. This one is from A Christmas Memory: One Christmas, and the Thanksgiving Visitor:
In today's selection -- a memory of a Thanksgiving dinner, deep in
the Great Depression on an isolated farm in Alabama. The memory is from
Truman Capote of his second-grade year, when his relatives, though poor,
opened their house to far-flung neighbors who lived in "lonesome places
hard to get away from." For Capote these were lonely years too, except
for his friendship with his ancient and slightly addled cousin Miss Sook
-- his divorced parents had abandoned him to those relatives.
"A lively day, that Thanksgiving. Lively with on-and-off showers and
abrupt sky clearings accompanied by thrusts of raw sun and sudden bandit
winds snatching autumn's leftover leaves.
"The noises of the house were lovely, too: pots and pans and Uncle
B.'s unused and rusty voice as he stood in the hall in his creaking
Sunday suit, greeting our guests as they arrived. A few came by
horseback or mule-drawn wagon, the majority in shined-up farm trucks and
rackety flivvers. Mr. and Mrs. Conklin and their four beautiful
daughters drove up in a mint-green 1932 Chevrolet (Mr. Conklin was well
off; he owned several
fishing smackers that operated out of Mobile), an
object which aroused warm curiosity among the men present; they studied
and poked it and all but took it apart.
"The first guests to arrive were Mrs. Mary Taylor Wheelwright,
escorted by her custodians, a grandson and his wife. She was a pretty
little thing, Mrs. Wheelwright; she wore her age as lightly as the tiny
red bonnet that, like the cherry on a vanilla sundae, sat perkily atop
her milky hair. 'Darlin' Bobby,' she said, hugging Uncle B., 'I realize
we're an itty-bit early, but you know me, always punctual to a fault.'
Which was an apology deserved, for it was not yet nine o'clock and
guests weren't expected much before noon.
"However, everybody arrived earlier than we intended -- except the
Perk McCloud family, who suffered two blowouts in the space of thirty
miles and arrived in such a stomping temper, particularly Mr. McCloud,
that we feared for the china. Most of these people lived year-round in
lonesome places hard to get away from: isolated farms, whistle-stops and
crossroads, empty river hamlets or lumber-camp communities deep in
the pine forests; so of course it was eagerness that caused them to be
early, primed for an affectionate and memorable gathering.
And so it was. Some while ago, I had a letter from one of the Conklin
sisters, now the wife of a naval captain and living in San Diego; she
wrote: 'I think of you often around this time of year, I suppose because
of what happened at one of our Alabama Thanksgivings. It was a few
years before Miss Sook died -- would it be 1933? Golly, I'll never
forget that day."
"By noon, not another soul could be accommodated in the parlor, a
hive humming with women's tattle and womanly aromas: Mrs. Wheelwright
smelled of lilac water and Annabel Conklin like geraniums after rain.
The odor of tobacco fanned out across the porch, where most of the men
had clustered, despite the wavering weather, the alternations between
sprinkles of rain and sunlit wind squalls."
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