Music, Teaching, Learning, and Life

This morning I called my Dad to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. During the conversation he mentioned going to the annual Thanksgiving Day cane grinding at my uncle’s farm.

Daddy was born and raised in a very small, rural community. One of thirteen brothers and sisters, they grew up on a farm, about 250 acres large. They grew vegetables (canning and freezing many), raised animals for food, milk, and labor, churned their own butter, harvested grapes, etc. They were considered poor even in their small community, but they always had food to eat and a few items of clothing to wear.

As a child growing up, I spent many Thanksgivings at my father’s parents’ home in northern Florida. Crossing over the state line (a river) from Georgia on the way, our family had a tradition of singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” We also played a silly game to see who could be “first” in the car to cross the line. As the youngest, I somehow was allowed to win this game frequently!

Even in the 1970′s, Daddy’s parents were still using milk on the table that had come straight from the farm cows. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but grandmother’s homemade biscuits are still some of the best I’ve ever tasted. She made them without a recipe, using lard. I learned to mix peanut butter and my uncle’s sugar cane syrup for a delicious dip for the biscuits.

Every Thanksgiving we spent in northern Florida, we went to my uncle’s place a few miles away for the annual sugar cane grinding and syrup making. My memories revolve mostly around playing with my cousins, and chewing on pieces of cane to get the last drops of sweetness. I wish I had paid more attention as a child to the details, but I do remember the huge vat where the juice was cooked down to the syrup’s sticky consistency before being bottled in hundreds of jars for family, friends, and for sale. I remember the barn being a stifling, steamy place, too hot even for a chilly Thanksgiving morning. It seemed run-down to me even then. But the sugar cane syrup made there is still my favorite of any, ever.

My Dad told me this morning that my 88 yr old uncle and his family no longer make the syrup. They still harvest the cane, but the syrup isn’t made at that location. I was there on Thanksgiving Day for the cane grinding several years back for the last time. Even though it hasn’t been a part of my life except that once in many years, I’m sad to hear that part of my extended family’s Thanksgiving tradition is over.

That one memory has brought to the forefront of my mind many of the ideas and struggles that have been a part of my blogging in the last few years. Perhaps the questions I’ve struggled with are questions some of you struggle with as well: Who am I? What is my calling? How can my life make even a small difference in this world?

I’m still working on the answers to those questions. However, this morning I was reminded of one thing. I’m still my father’s daughter, and I’m very thankful for that!