Tones of Home

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Steve and I went down to Shallotte the night before and slept on twin beds in the bedroom that many years before had been my Duran Duran-plastered lair, but has since become the hallowed grandkids' room, with traces of my nephews throughout their stages of childhood inhabiting every square inch.

We woke up early (for us). My only job was to make deviled eggs from the fancy deviled-egg cookbook I got for my birthday from my friend, but my Sainted Southern Mother, who'd been awake since 5 a.m., had already boiled the eggs, halved them and smooshed the yolks in a bowl. It took me about 10 minutes to mix in the ingredients, spoon the filling back into the halves and top them with rosemary sprigs she brought in from the bush my sister Jill planted outside years before.

My aunt and uncle weren't due for another few hours, my SSM had already set the elaborate table and my Good Ol' Boy Daddy had taken the turkey over to his buddy's house to deep fry it. My mother is usually unable to sit still, but when she realized there was nothing left to prepare, nothing to worry over, she did what she always does to relax: She went into the living room and started playing her piano.

Steve and I flopped on the couch in the den reading the paper for a while. Then I recognized the song my mama was playing, "What a Wonderful World." I put down my cryptoquote to listen. And smile. And be thankful.

So very thankful.