Good morning, Netizens...

This morning, we begin a fictional review of Thanksgiving past, as viewed through my particular aperture on life. It should be noted that the Safeway Store that this story refers to is no longer there, thus making Aunt Lucretia make the trip on a city bus.

Every town, I imagine, has an doting aunt of their own, but with the passage of the years, I have grown accustomed to seeing Aunt Lucretia each year on Thanksgiving Day keeping her appointed rounds. She is but a sprite of a woman, well enough up in years, so that you scarcely notice her as she purposefully moves down the sidewalks in Hillyard. Dressed in dark purple full-length faux satin dress she reserves for important occasions, ankle-high sensible shoes and a prim flat hat firmly pinned to her gray hair, in the days and weeks prior to Thanksgiving she makes several furtive trips to the grocery store and inevitably a trip behind her house where four crabapple trees still linger among the jimsonweeds, hollyhocks and a weathered child's swing that rocks back and forth in the evening breeze.

Each year, for as long as I can remember, Aunt Lucretia makes two neat little fruit salads, one of which she brings to my house, and the other she tells me is for her son who lives ten blocks down Market Street, but I know better.

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