The fire needed more wood. It was cold in the old house, and Bill thought about that as he carried in another armload. He stood by the fireplace, warming himself and thinking—old men do a lot of that. Since his wife had passed, Thanksgiving no longer felt the same. He knew it was supposed to mean something special, but tonight he just felt lonely.
It was the Depression. Food was scarce, money even scarcer. He wondered what supper might be. Then he remembered the sweet potatoes in the cellar. Baked in the coals with a little butter, they’d do. A few leftover biscuits and some sweet milk—that would be enough. He reminded himself to be grateful even for that.
Just then he heard footsteps on the porch and a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called. The old hinges creaked and in stepped the neighbor boy.
“Mr. Bill, it’s cold out. Can I sit by the fire and warm up?”
“Sure, son. Come on around.”
The boy’s name was Slim—easy to see why. Tall and skinny.
“What are you doing out on a day like this?” Bill asked.
“Momma sent me,” Slim said. “She wondered if you had any sweet taters. She’s cooking them for Thanksgiving and couldn’t find none. She sure would appreciate it—and she said to invite you to eat with us.”
Bill smiled. “Yes, son. Go down to the cellar and bring up a bucket. I’ll get you a sack to carry them.”
Slim returned with a small bucket half full of big, pretty potatoes. “Ours are all gone,” he said.
“Let’s rinse the dirt off, make them lighter,” Bill replied. He cleaned them and bagged them up.
“Better get going,” Slim said. “Momma’s gotta cook them. You coming to eat, ain’t you?”
“What time?”
“About dark—and Momma said don’t dress up ‘cause we ain’t.”
Bill laughed as Slim hurried out the door. Dress up? He couldn’t if he tried. Still, when the old mantle clock chimed four, he shaved, put on a clean white shirt and his best denim jumper. Looking in the mirror, he thought he looked pretty good for an old man.
He walked through the woods toward the neighbor’s house, still worried about food for the coming winter but smiling at the thought of a meal he didn’t have to cook. The dogs announced his arrival, and soon he was welcomed into the warm, fragrant house. Little Slim ushered him to a chair at a table covered with bowls. The sight stirred memories of his wife, and his eyes grew moist.
“Would you like to bless the food?” Slim’s father asked.
Bill froze. He hadn’t felt blessed since his wife died and couldn’t form the words. Slim’s father quickly stepped in. “No problem. I’ll do it.” He bowed his head and spoke a beautiful prayer of thanks.
The meal was wonderful. The warmth of family conversation filled Bill with a joy he hadn’t felt in years. Afterward, Slim’s mother packed him a plate to take home. Before he left, Slim’s father said, “We’ve got something for you.”
“What for?” Bill asked.
“Remember helping Slim load wood last fall when I was sick? We needed that wood. I’ve got six or seven big hens I’d like you to have. We can’t feed them all.”
Bill protested, but Slim was already outside gathering the chickens. Soon a toe sack of hens hung over Bill’s shoulder and a bag of food rested in his arm.
Under a bright moon he made his way back through the woods, thinking of the blessing he’d just received. He felt ashamed for worrying earlier. Helping others had brought blessings back to him—fresh chickens that would keep him through the winter, eggs to trade in town, and the promise of game from his trusty rifle.
As he neared his little cabin, he stopped and looked up at the brilliant moon. Tears blurred his eyes. “God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You had plans to take care of me, and I forgot. Forgive me for falling short. Thank You for all my blessings—even the ones I didn’t see coming. I’ll try to do better.”
On that Thanksgiving night, his heart was full—warm with gratitude, faith, and the quiet joy of knowing he was not forgotten.