On Thanksgiving Eve we wrote gratitude lists, counted gifts, filled paper to the edges then taped our thanks to the kitchen wall.
This special November Thursday has become a favorite at our house.
Come morning, Doug is stirring the filling for his grandmother’s no bake pumpkin pie on the stove. Our children are watching the Rockettes kick in perfect unison at the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade on NBC. And I am about to begin my grandmother’s recipe for turkey dressing.
I ran the icy streets this morning before sun-up. Grateful for gloves, a fleece hat, and a healthy body.
Run alone and you notice so much. The sound of your breath, the way your elbows glide past your ribs, branches bent to the earth under the weight of snow, the crunch of crystalline tire tread underfoot.
And I smelled the most wonderful smells. Apples mingled with cinnamon on Naniloa Drive. Pancakes and bacon at the bottom of the swell on Wander. The scent of an outdoor world, crisped in white, so subtle it barely smelled at all.