I ended up staying home on Thanksgiving, dealing with the latest critter problem, so I missed the annual family gatherings of Miss Rhonda's clans. Getting tangled up in one task after another even precluded heading up to the store for some visiting and a cup of coffee, much less going hunting for an hour or two.

Then I made the mistake of not really paying attention to which music ended up in the CD player. Songs about missing Mommas and Daddies are not recommended listening for the first holiday where you no longer have either.

Of course, Thanksgiving around our house has rarely been normal; Miss Rhonda's either been working at one radio station or another, or someone couldn't get into town, or someone's been sick.

Sometimes we've delayed the traditional dinner a day or two to accommodate two separate families, one of which has two branches, all of whom seem to plan on feeding and fellowshiping at the same time on the same day, but in different locations.

But this year was different.

Mother wasn't off in Louisiana bouncing a new great-grandbaby; she's gone home. The absence of the Old Man, of course, was still felt, but except for sharp pains now and then, that wound has reduced to an old scar, as healed over as it ever can be, its presence only occasionally known by a quick, deep twinge.

I didn't really expect to hear from my siblings, either; distance and the loss of the major bond wrought by a mother causes way too many families to lose track, and ours is no different. Besides, they all had their own families and friends to worry about (and I'm not even sure Jim and Mirella celebrate Thanksgiving in Italy, although knowing them they would find something else to celebrate).

Of course, I realize Thanksgiving isn't about turkey and sweet potatoes and all the rest. I did spend a few minutes thinking about and reflecting on all the things I'd left out of my column the other week, all the blessings for which I have so many reasons to be thankful.

Those few minutes came after a hasty lunch of a baked potato and a handful of crackers shared with the beasts whose devilish machinations had kept me home.

Sure, there had been better Thanksgivings, but there had been worse, too, and there were folks around I knew would have traded my problems for theirs in a minute. There's always next year, and besides, Christmas isn't far off. I vowed to eat myself insensate then, and make up for all the time lost visiting with folks and family.

The day was soon over, and between scrambling for news for the next week and trying to get everything that needed doing done, I kind of let the holiday slide away. The weekend, too, was busy, as the death of an old friend and church and still more chores made the weekend more exhausting than the week.

On Monday, we once again scrambled to put out a paper, and once again, I staggered up the steps of the greatest front porch in North Carolina, planning to once again collapse in a chair with a cup of coffee and a dog in my lap.

But Miss Rhonda was having none of it.

I smelled the cooking when I stopped the truck.

Opening the door, I was overcome with the smell of dressing, sweet potato casserole, green bean salad, and biscuits.

There was a tablecloth and center-cloth on the kitchen table, and she had cleaned an old silver candlestick I'd picked up on one adventure or another. Unlike our usual somewhat casual dining suite of whatever is clean and easily reached, the dishes and silver matched, as did the serving dishes, save an antique platter holding a chicken who gave her life for a good cause.

Miss Rhonda was even dressed in her favorite "good" dress, carefully protected by an apron.

"I wanted you to have a Thanksgiving dinner," she said simply, and we did.

I'd spent much of the holiday with a bad case of the blues, thinking of those times past when Mother would just get settled and satisfied about the time Papa and I would dash out the door to a wreck or a fire, or one of the dogs would sneak a pan of biscuits (or even a turkey) off the counter, or the phone would ring during the blessing with a scratchy but welcome call from halfway around the world.

It was easy to be morose and sad thinking about all those memories, and times long gone, especially when I was listening to sad country music while eating a baked potato and a handful of crackers after fixing another hole in the fence.

But as Miss Rhonda, apron forgotten amidst the last minute preparations, her glasses steamed up from opening the stove, raised her ginger ale in a toast, there was no being morose-because even a couple days late, with no family but my beloved wife close at hand, it was one of my happiest Thanksgivings yet.

But then again, anytime someone takes the time to show you how much they love you, it's a good time to be thankful.

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