Do you remember driving down little trails to visit relatives in the country on Thanksgiving? Whenever we crossed a stream, I always worried that our tires wouldn’t stay on the wooden bridge tracks and we would fall through. Some pieces are missing on this bridge, but it reminded me of how wide these small bridges were.
I miss sipping cool clear water from the old tin or gourd dipper by the well when we reached our destination. I don’t think there was any better tasting water.
Many Thanksgiving Days were spent with our relatives in the country where we all enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving feast. Often we traveled on one-lane dirt roads with narrow bridges similar to the ruins of the picture above. Whenever we crossed a stream, I always worried that our tires wouldn’t stay on the wooden bridge tracks and we would fall through. Some pieces are missing on this bridge, but the picture reveals the how narrow they were. On those precious memories from the past, I remember repeating the Thanksgiving poem below and I discovered that it actually originated around 1845.
New England Boys Song about Thanksgiving Day Illus. in: Flowers for Children by Lydia Maria Child (Boston, 1845), p. 25. (Library of Congress)
“We cannot live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a thousand invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run as causes and return to us as results.” Herman Melville
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