Down the Road: A Magical Place

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In the Deep South where I grew up, everything was right down the road.

The old gravel roads of the Mississippi Delta once flanked by fields of cotton on every side are now covered with the tracks and footprints of history and memory. Community was built along those rural roads, springing up amongst the waves of heat as bare feet and tires alike traversed their dusty, durable paths. As a young child, I remember making my way down one of those dusty roads to deliver an unexpected package to a waiting heart. Those dirt and gravel highways of hope were always there to take us home: to a place where others expected us to show up and we were duty bound not to disappoint them. Those who had less or needed a bit more had us—the same road that brought us to their home led them to ours.?

“Right Down the Road” was a magical place, not a burdensome expectation. My grands and great-grands lived right down the road. My best friend lived right down the road. A free meal was right down the road. There was never an excuse good enough not to do something unselfish for others. They were never too far away. Even when “right down the road” was several miles or half a country block, I knew where to find my neighbors. Country blocks were not well-planned or properly laid out, but they were well-known, worn into permanence by the ancient footprints of elders before us whose voices we could still hear: "Go on in boy, They at home.”?

As I celebrate THANKSGIVING in the 21st century, those treks “Right Down the Road” awaken again inside my mind as my heart reminds me of a place of goodness and unselfishness. Traditional smells fill our kitchen. Sugar and butter are still stirred to perfection. My small Delta hometown of Glen Allan was a savory pot of a community—making savory memories for all within its embrace. Affected as I am today by the shadow of COVID-19, I remember even more fondly the days when running into a home to deliver a meal was an easy thing to do. It is not always as easy today, but wherever and whenever we can, it is still a connective tissue of community. We should still take our welcome down the road.

I have now experienced more Thanksgivings than I can remember, but all of them have been seasoned with memories from a time when we relished the thought of sharing beyond our own front porches. Such thinking and actions are never out-of-date or lost to time. I laugh recalling the joy we had each November, when Thanksgiving was on the calendar and in our hearts. Mother’s turkey was never plump and overweight in those days. It was small, more akin to an oversized hen. Nevertheless, mom treated it as if it were the biggest turkey in Glen Allan. She hummed and cooked as if preparing a feast for a king. We watched and waited, wondering what magic she could produce with such a small bird. Bumping into each other in the small kitchen, we were usually shooed outside of those hallowed halls while she prepared the food to be shared with others.

As the turkey cooked in the oven of the wood-burning stove, the small bird became even smaller and the smell permeated the small kitchen that shared space with my mom’s pride and joy, her electric washing machine, the roll-away bed, and the small table where soap, towels, and toothbrushes lined the small wall with just enough room for the wooden dinner table and chairs. It was crowded, very crowded, but I don’t recall that ever becoming a topic of conversation. We had learned to share life within the space that we had.

I can still see Thanksgiving from fifty years ago:

The turkey is finally ready and has been pulled from the oven. It seems even smaller now, as if it were switched in the oven, but it is perfectly, evenly brown. I just know that there won’t be enough left for us. How could there be? I watch in trepidation as my mother begins carving the bird…and somehow, she keeps just enough for us. The carved poultry is laid out on wax paper. The “fixings” ... now called "sides" are standing by.?Mother makes ready the plates of food by adding a slice or two of her Rex-Jelly-Cake. Like little soldiers, her army of five kids stand ready for her orders. Our baby sister Connie is too small to join us yet, but she looks on with youthful approval as we make ready to leave.

I can still see us lined up and walking as fast as we could, traversing that graveled and partially black-topped road with plates lovingly and securely wrapped in newspapers and then tucked into brown paper bags. In the spirit of the holiday, we were headed to the homes of others. We didn’t know that we didn’t have enough to share. We just knew that home was down the road, and our neighbors were waiting for us. My mother taught us this, and her lessons were well-learned.

Decades later, having celebrated many Thanksgivings with a family of my own, I have carried my small Delta community with me. A community where embracing unselfishness was not uncommon, where we gladly reached beyond our front porches to the front porches of others. Today, as families, neighbors, and friends, we still need to stand with brown paper bags in our hands, ready to accept the never-ending commission of being the caring army, prepared to share our hearts and lives with those who live right down the road.

In the 21st century, the road may look different. It may be longer and better-maintained. It may be virtual. It may be that our once-neighbors are only accessible by utilizing technology that I didn’t have in my small Mississippi Delta community. But no matter the length of the road or its composition, others are always closer than we think. Our hearts and minds have an almost infinite capacity to embrace others. To do so is the choice we have to make.

Unselfishness is the great remover of boundaries.

These memories are from half a century ago, but I vividly recall the image of what a grateful heart can do with a tiny turkey. My mother was a philanthropist. She knew the truth that generosity never begins with what you have. It always starts with who you are. When your presence is defined by a grateful heart, then delivering “turkey and fixings” to others down the road is just what you do. Our bird may have shrunk in size, but my mother’s heart grew to make up the difference, and her grateful presence caused all other hearts in her vicinity to do the same-ours included. Big hearts will always be needed to carry the gift of community, and a grateful presence will always find friends…right down the road.

Never underestimate the power of your presence.

Happy Thanksgiving...Share Your Memory of Gratefulness with Others

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