WIDE MEADOWS: A CONTINUING SERIES; LIGHTS FOR THANKSGIVING: HEADING TO TOWN FOR THE PURCHASE

Editor's note: This is an installment from a chapter of Jean Bell Mosley's book "Wide Meadows" that was first published in 1960.

Last week: The family prepares for new gas lights in the kitchen.

Lou and I went to town with Dad in the big wagon and actually saw the exchange take place. He covered the tank and pipes and fixtures with old quilts. "Don't want no one asking questions," he explained, winking, comrade-like, at us. He meant neighbors we would probably see on our way home. Lou and I swelled with pride in our forward-looking father's actions as he loudly and loftily informed various and sundry strangers in and about the store of what he was doing, not only for the immediate family, but that his action would serve as a lever to lift the whole community out of a generation's old rut. This, I felt, with a secret thrill in my heart, would cancel the abortive bathtub and conveyor belt and make Mama stop the sewing machine when Dad had something to say and keep Grandma from dodging the mud daubers in such a theatrical manner. They had begun to come down through the hole, seeking the warmth of the kitchen.

Paul Britt was making a few repairs on his rickety old barn when we passed by his farm. The whole Britt place was rickety and run-down and scrawny-looking. A few years ago a windstorm that had skipped every other place in the community had crippled the barn and twisted the house on the foundation. Paul had never recovered because, as he said, he "couldn't find a startin' point." It was a joke to make light of the disaster and everyone went along with it, offering suggestions to Paul all the time as to where he should begin his restoration.

"I'd start with a match and some coal oil," Jim Stacey suggested, and Tom McDowell said the easiest way to get on top again, in his opinion, would be just to plow the whole place under.

"Howdy, Paul," Dad greeted, pulling the horses to a stop. "Found a startin' place?"

"Naw, sit, I ain't, Wilson. Thought sure I had. I says to myself only this morning, Now, it's on the west side of the barn you need to start she's a leanin' westward.' So I started bracin' it back up and now I got it a-leaning' eastward. They just ain't no proper startin' place."

"How about starting with Thanksgiving."

"Thanksgiving?" Mr. Britt laughed as if it were a joke. "For this?" He let his arm sweep over the sorry sight that was his homestead.

"Well, you the land yet," Dad observed.

"No, I reckon I ain't right properly got the land no more. Third year the taxes have gone unpaid and you know that can't go on forever."

"No, it can't, Paul," Dad agreed, "but, anyway, I was going to say, how about you and Lonnie having Thanksgiving dinner with us this year? I'm asking the neighbors in. Got a little surprise to spring."

"Oh, I reckon not, Wilson. We'd be pretty poor company around a Thanksgiving table knowing this was probably our last year here. Sure hate to be leaving, but don't see no way out of it."

Dad looked gloomier than Mr. Britt. "Well, sure like to have you if you change your mind, Paul."

Mrs. Stacey was digging parsnips when we arrived there. Dad got down and went over to the fence, and Lou and I followed.

"Bessie, how about you all coming over and having Thanksgiving dinner with us next week?"

"Thanksgiving?" Mrs. Stacey's chin started trembling. "Oh, Wilson, we just couldn't. This'll be the first year we've not all been together and we'll not be fit company on Thanksgiving. If only Jack could be home, but we can't send him the coming money." The tears started running down Mrs. Stacey's cheeks. Lou and I started crying too. We'd been flower girls at her other son's funeral during the past year and the sadness all seemed to come back.

"Got a little surprise I was a-fixin' to show the neighbors," Dad said, wistfully. "Something the whole community might like to adopt."

Mrs. Stacey just shook her head miserably. We climbed back into the wagon and went on. Dad's shoulders began to sag and wrinkles formed across his forehead. This was unexpected interference with his plans.

The McDowells were just sitting down to noonday dinner when we reached their house. There were Tom and Polly and Herbert and Aileen and Maggie all around the table. We looked for the rest of them, but didn't see them anywhere.

"Well, Wilson, howdy." Tom got up and shook Dad's had heartily. "Get, some of you kids, and let these folks sit down and eat with us."

Dad protested, but neither Tom nor Polly would hear to our not stopping to eat. There was a great bowl of potatoes cooked in their jackets centering the table. Each person took a potato as it was passed, and that was dinner.

Dad made a great ceremony of peeling, salting, peppering and eating his potato, so Lou and I did too.

"Want you all to come over to our house for Thanksgiving dinner." Dad issued his invitation.

Tom and Polly exchanged worried glances.

"Don't reckon we can, Wilson. Got some sick kids on my hands." He motioned toward the bedroom.

"What's the trouble?" Dad asked.

"Well, it's ain't something you can put your finger on like the grippe or measles or snake bite. Doc says it's a longtime thing and that the kids need more fruit and things."

"Sure am sorry," Dad said. "Had a little surprise I was a-fixin' to show the folks. Well, come if you can.

We almost got home with the lighting system. We had crossed the river and started up the last long hill. Our place looked like a Thanksgiving poster itself, I thought. How nice it would to have the new lights and with the new lights a new respectful family relationship. It would be the best Thanksgiving ever.

Suddenly Dad turned the wagon around and sent the horses on a trot back to town.

"What did you forget?" Lou asked, but he didn't answer. Back to Wallingford's we went and to our great amazement heard Dad tell Mr. Wallingford he didn't want the lighting system after all and would Mr. Wallingford please give him back his money, only keep out enough to send a barrel of oranges and apples out to a family by the name of McDowell on the Elvins-to-Loughboro road. Then Dad went to the depot and the courthouse to transact some Thanksgiving business, he said. Lou and I sat huddled in the wagon, miserable about the great retreat.

Now Grandma and Mama would have the hole in the ceiling to talk about, along with the bathtub and belt, and there it would be, right over our heads three times a day.

It was after dark when we got back home and snowing softly. The lamps, stationary, hanging, and bracketed, set light streaming from the kitchen windows, turning the snow to gold dust and making a welcome path for us.

How nice things could have been if we were just coming home from an ordinary Saturday trip to town!

Well, there were certain sterling tests one had to go through, Lou and I reminded each other.

Next week: The Thanksgiving meal.