<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Many, many times in my life I’ve heard my daddy tell the story of his mother’s thankless Thanksgiving.   Here’s the story in his own words.</span>

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<span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Calibri">I was born on a farm in rural north Alabama on May 26, 1921.  My dad rented the farm and grew cotton.  My mother had always been in poor health, and in 1928 the doctor told them that if they didn’t move somewhere with an arid climate, she was going to die.  So we packed up and moved to west Texas. Dad rented a farm and grew cotton as the cash crop, plus maize and grain to feed the livestock.  </span></span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Every year, the local farmers took out loans from the bank to buy seed and hail insurance, putting up their livestock and farm equipment as collateral. We had a good harvest in 1929, with cotton selling at 25 cents a pound. Then the stock market crash happened, starting the Great Depression.  We had another good crop in 1930, but made less money. By 1931, the price of cotton was down to five cents a pound.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">That spring, the farmers got to talking amongst themselves, saying it had been years since there had been a hail storm.  Because times were so hard, my dad decided not to take out hail insurance that year.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">In the latter part of August, the cotton was in full bloom, ready for harvest.  One day, close to sundown, the skies grew dark and green.  We went down into the storm cellar.  Outside you could hear a fierce storm raging, with hail hitting the door.  When it was over, we went outside and found the ground covered in hailstones, some as big as baseballs.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">The damage was devastating.  The cotton bolls were stripped off.  All the grain was beaten into the ground.  Mama raised turkeys to sell for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and they had been beaten to death.  My dad had a field of ripe watermelons ready for market, and they were pulverized.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Sunday afternoon came and we went to the schoolhouse, where we had church.  Dad led the singing.  He said, “Folks, these are hard times.  Get out your hymnals and turn to ‘Count Your Blessings’.”</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count Your Blessings</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">words by Johnson Oatman Jr.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost, </span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your many blessings, name them one by one,</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Are you ever burdened with a load of care?</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">And you will be singing as the days go by.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your blessings, name them one by one.</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your blessings, see what God hath done.</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your blessings, name them one by one.</span>

<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">The farmers and their families sang the hymn, but Mama kept stoic with her jaw clamped shut.  On the way home, one of the kids said, “Mama, you didn’t sing.”  Bitterly she said, “I didn’t have anything to sing about.  It’s my fault we’re in this mess.  We moved out here for my health.”</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">The next day, dad pulled my older brother, D.C., and me out of school to help harvest what we could salvage of the crop.  Normally we had around 40 bales of cotton to sell.  This time we had two.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Thanksgiving came, and the farmers followed the local tradition of eating together at a different family’s home from Thursday through Sunday.  On Friday morning, dad and D.C. went out to milk the two cows.  A few minutes later, D.C. came running back to the house, yelling, “Come quick!  Dad just collapsed!”</span>

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<span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Calibri">He had had a massive stroke.  Mama sent me to a neighbor’s house to get help, and sent D.C. to another neighbor who had a phone so he could call the doctor.  The doctor said dad had to go to the hospital.  After a few days there, the doctor said, “You might as well take him home.  We can’t do anything else for him, and he will never be able to work again.”  </span></span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri"><span style="font-size: small">We could no longer afford to rent the farm, so we moved into town – Memphis, TX.  A few weeks later, dad contracted pneumonia and died on Christmas Day.  The next day we buried him in a homemade coffin.  December 27</span><sup><span style="font-size: x-small">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: small">, the banker came to the house.  He said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith, but your husband borrowed money to make a crop, and we have to foreclose.”  The bank took all the livestock and farm equipment, leaving only D.C’s horse, which he owned.  </span></span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">D.C. was 14, I was 10, and there were two younger children.  Mama had to find some way of supporting her family.  So she borrowed nine cows from her cousin and neighbors.  She paid $5.00 for a used ice wagon, and with D.C.’s horse, started a milk delivery service, going door to door.  D.C. dropped out of school for good and got a job on a nearby ranch where they let our cows graze.  Way before dawn every day, Mama would milk the cows, and then D.C. and I would deliver the milk before I had to go to school.  She made the money stretch, and we got by somehow.</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">The next Thanksgiving at the dinner table, she said, “I wish I could go back to that schoolhouse last year and sing, ‘Count Your Blessings’.  I still have you kids, and together we’re doing OK.”</span>

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<span style="font-family: Calibri;font-size: small">Are you counting your blessings this year?  Is there “thanks” in your Thanksgiving?</span>

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