Before we put away Thanksgiving, let’s go back a few years to a Thanksgiving in the 1950s, in any country town in Maine. In my town, the population then was around 3,500, most people had one job and one vehicle per family and on Thanksgiving, the men went deer hunting.

Thanksgiving was a holiday – no school for the weekend, and a day off for our father. Before it was daylight on Thanksgiving Day, we children could smell the coffee, as our mother was filling a Thermos bottle and packing a lunch for our father, who was taking advantage of the day off to go hunting.

A nice deer would provide meat for many weeks of early winter and with the little chunks that didn’t become roasts, mother would make some delicious mincemeat for pies and turnovers.

We heard the truck drive off and went back to sleep, anticipating the feast that would come later in the day.

The smell of rolls baking and turkey or chicken roasting woke us and we quickly got dressed to start our day. The long, pine, trestle table was piled with plates and silverware, waiting for one of us girls to set them in place. We didn’t have a large crowd arriving – but six children would fill the dining room.

Out in the kitchen, we helped peel potatoes, squash and turnip – all grown in the summer garden. A quart jar of string beans (same garden) was opened. A couple of cans of cranberry sauce set aside was about the only food we had that was bought in a store. Pies went in the oven first and when they were done, a cookie sheet of homemade rolls were baked. When everything was done, we waited.

We’d go outside to listen for a gunshot, maybe off in the woods – in those days, hunting could be done in the town – no housing developments and few places where houses were close together.

As the day dragged on, it could mean only one thing – no deer. If our father had shot a deer early in the day he’d be home for dinner. But if not, then he’d keep on hunting until dark and it would be Thanksgiving supper. Regardless, like magic, our mom could keep a meal hot until everyone was ready to eat.

We heard the old truck rattled down the dirt road (most roads were dirt roads in those days) and we all ran out to peer in the back of the truck. Yes, a nice deer was waiting to be hung up out back in the cold air.

We all trooped into the house and while we enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinner, we heard all about where the hunting was done and the tracking of the quarry and how many shots it took – and another typical Thanksgiving Day was nearly done.

Except for washing the dishes – at this point, mom left the kitchen to her daughters – and while Dad fell asleep in his chair, mother got on the “party” line (multi-unit phone line) to report the day’s success to her friends. In the kitchen, we sisters took turns washing and wiping.

And the boys in the family went outdoors to walk around the hanging deer, making up stories of what it would be like when they were old enough to go hunting.

Kay Soldier welcomes reader ideas for column topics of interest to seniors. She can be reached by email at kso48@aol.com, or write to 114 Tandberg Trail, Windham, ME 04062.