My earliest memories of Thanksgiving go back to the 1940s, when my parents and I often spent the day with my step-grandmother Lucy and my Aunt Ruth at their home in Hamilton, IL, about 40 miles from our farm in Missouri.

Lucy, who became a step-mother to my dad and his seven siblings in 1897 when their mother died, and anchored the family when their father died two years later, had turned 80 by the time I was born. She was “hard-of-hearing,” as they said in those days, and I was instructed to “speak up” when addressing her.

In one of our conversations, she told me that her parents had taken her to a Lincoln-Douglas debate in Quincy, Illinois when she was a “babe in arms.” While she had no personal memory of the event, the historic connection we made with Lincoln made a lasting impression.

Although the family had a few homemade recipes for grape and dandelion wine, Lucy considered herself a teetotaler. But one of my uncles gave her a bottle of French brandy each year on her birthday, and my aunt noted it had been consumed when Lucy’s next birthday rolled around. It apparently did her little harm, as she lived to be 98.

Each Thanksgiving, Lucy and my aunt often invited members of Lucy’s family, and occasionally my dad’s oldest sibling, my Aunt Florence, also would join us. There was a neighbor who occasionally joined us, a Mr. Fenton, who worked for the railroad and once gave me a ride on a switch engine – a real adventure.

Aunt Ruth, who had lived for a short time in France, took pride in her cooking, and the meal was always a great occasion. She also had a large garden, fertilized with compost from her kitchen. She also canned the surplus, and had well-stocked jars on shelves in the basement.

After the main meal, which left everyone stuffed, we all made room for ice cream, which my aunt frequently topped off with Crème de Menthe liqueur – making it a unique sundae, and another “exception” to the family’s teetotalling nature.