When I think of a happy Thanksgiving, I sometimes think of the fragrance of a baked fatted hen, dressings, and the smell of sage. There were the gravies produced in some secret manner to be sopped up too. There were fragrant hot rolls and, oh yes, the great pies and other fine desserts that appeared only on these special occasions. And I remember those loved ones that showed up and joined us around the big round table there in the back end of a little grocery store on HW-3 in Centrahoma.

Our Thanksgiving feasts were always celebrated with family. And why not? Wasn’t that what it was all about? And one thing we poor people had even during those hard times, was family. Lula was a very special place, and I had a large passel of aunts and uncles living there then.

I happened to be at my Lula grandma Julia’s this Thanksgiving season 80 years ago. My Armstrong kin didn’t do much grocery shopping in Ada or any place else. The grocery store was mainly for staples, such as coffee and flour and sugar. So, Grandma Julia commanded one of her sons, Ezra, to go kill some fat hens for her. I watched closely as he went out and coldly analyzed the nonchalant and unsuspecting hens before he withdrew and pulled out his single shot .22 rifle. He dispatched the selected birds with sure shots to the head and then we went out and in due time we plucked their feathers and grandma made them ready for the pot. I never felt this was totally fair for the hens, but it was what it was.

It wasn’t that simple of course. Grandpa had great amounts of cured hams and sausages and such. Fresh game would be killed and added to the menu. Mom, Aunt Ruth, and Aunt Oma would bring all sorts of wonders including hoards of cousins. Pumpkin pies and other seasonal goodies would be prepared and eventually the day itself would arrive and we would all gather and not only be wonderfully fed but also be thankful. We had more to be thankful for that day than we could know.

Soon the whole family would virtually vanish to California. Or perhaps Tarawa or maybe Iwo Jima. Others went to the coast to build and work in the shipyards. The war consumed us all including the tenacious little town of Lula and many of its citizens as they migrated away.

Years passed by for me and 1956 found me home in Stonewall on leave from the Navy. I drove up old SH-48 toward Lula. I was on the first leg of a long trip back to Boston. I thought of the longago days when I had helped my Aunt Ruth and Uncle “Leck” (Lula’s postmaster) in their postal duties. Aunt Ruth met several trains a day and picked up the mail for Lula. The mail trains and their method of leaving the mail bags off fascinated me and I was eager to help. But, as I drove on that long-ago day in 1956, I suddenly realized I hadn’t passed through Lula yet. So, I went back and looked.

When I got back to the spot where Uncle Leck and Aunt Ruth’s new grocery store was now located I noticed that Lula’s entire downtown had vanished. Even the big two storied hotel atop the hill capping the street had vanished too. I stopped and checked this out with my Uncle Lester Davis. “Yes,” he said. “Someone bought the whole kit and caboodle for taxes and dozed it all down. It’s all gone.” I resumed my long trip to Boston with a lot of melancholy thoughts. Lula was gone. Not hardly a trace.

Have a happy Thanksgiving Day. Remember, things have a way of changing and it’s not always the way we planned. Mark December 4th on your calendars. It’s the date FBC Allen presents “The Hanging of the Green.” Happens at 5:00 PM. You’ll love it. Happy Holiday treats too afterwards in the Family Life Center.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com