Gratitude and Celebration Honoring the Spirit of the Holidays By Dana Hairston Hof
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e are a “no marshmallows on our sweet potatoes” family. In fact, my grandmother’s sweet potato recipe would rival any dish, at any holiday, on any table in the country. I know those are fighting words, but you should know, I work out and am prepared to defend. Every year, for as long as I can remember, we have eaten the same foods for Thanksgiving and Christmas: turkey with cranberry sauce; ham; sweet potato streusel; green bean casserole; cornbread dressing; twicebaked-potato casserole; Sister Schubert’s Parker House rolls (why mess with perfection?); pecan pie; and The Pink Stuff. When my grandmother was about to leave heaven and come to the earth, God said, “I’ll make this one sweet, beautiful, tireless, and...Peter? Can you fetch The Pink Stuff recipe Martha brought? Let’s send it with this one.” We also drive out to Cross Roads Hunting Club, where five or six generations of our family have lived, deer hunted, fished and farmed. This excursion, only a few miles out of town, includes visiting with cousins, deer hunting, or walking through the cemetery for my grandfather to announce, very matter-of-fact, “This is where I’ll go and your grandmother will go here,” as he points proudly to their
final resting places. And then I’ll say something like, “Oh good grief, really?” and he will respond emphatically, “Well, that’s right.” And then a little piece of me withers at the reality of them not being here with us, with me, forever. And then we check our ankles for ticks. Then, also for as long as I can remember, on Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when it is supposed to be played, we would attend or watch the Arkansas Razorbacks play the LSU Tigers (have mercy on cousin Sarah who graduated from LSU; we did our best). To provide some historical context, these two teams have been playing one another since 1901 and as SEC rivals since 1992. We can no longer do that because someone with a dark and lost soul, and absolutely zero understanding of history and tradition, decided to ruin our lives by inventing a fake rivalry between Arkansas and Missouri. For the record, we do not accept or acknowledge this as a rivalry. Is Missouri even in the south? My apologies to cousin Scott, but it’s a fair question. Although I’ve lived in Pensacola for 11 years, I’ve made the trip back to south Arkansas every year during the holiday season in an effort to carry on these unintended traditions. It was my goal to instill the importance of family and history in my own children. My little Mayberry-esque town in the Arkansas
pineywoods, just off the Mississippi Delta, and all its ways and people are fundamental to some of the best parts of me. Sometimes I fear if I stay away for too long, I might somehow lose my eccentricity and charm. With the Thule luggage rack loaded, pillows and blankets and children stuffed and buckled into my Tahoe, to grandmother’s and Dad’s house we would go. Sea and salt air swirling behind us, we dipped through the tunnel at Mobile, Alabama, before traversing across the rolling hills and vast delta. We drove past the stadium at the University of Southern Mississippi, a halfway point between my two childhood homes, where my divorced parents handed me off to one another when I was little. Driving through Jackson, I have to play Jackson by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. I know it's about Jackson, Tennessee, but the point is to educate (read: annoy) my children on good music, not be factually accurate. After Vicksburg, we cross the state line into Louisiana where I must say outloud and with gusto: “Bienvenue en Louisiane!” Much like protesting the Arkansas-Missouri rival, this is the point in the trip when I also protest driving through Lake Providence. Google “Lake Providence speed trap” and mind your own business about why I might personally object DECEMBER '20
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