It was Thanksgiving Day a few years ago. My daughter was sitting on the couch watching the parade. My dogs kept lifting their noses to sniff the turkey slowly cooking in the oven. And my sons and I were secretly getting a piece of pumpkin pie with cream to hold us until dinner was done. As we lifted our forks I said, “Life is short! Eat dessert first!” Then I smiled as we ate our pie with delight and gave the outside part to the dogs.

Later I decided to take my oldest dog, Snoopy out for a walk. As we slowly walked through the ankle deep leaves I let my mind wander to memories of Thanksgivings past. I could see my grown children as babies sitting in their high chairs covered in mashed potatoes. I remembered all of those years spent visiting their grandparents and all of the special foods they made. There was sausage stuffing, noodles and cheese, and fried potatoes. There was turkey and delicious desserts made with love. And there was the three day nap (小睡) you wanted to take after dinner.

Even more than the food were the memories of joy that stuck in my mind and stayed in my heart. There were the smiles and hugs, the shared stories and laughter, the love so freely given at this time of the year. I went back inside with all of them flowing through me. I felt both glad and sad at the same time. I was happy for all the blessed times we had shared over the years and sad that they had flown by so fast. Most of all, though, I felt at peace and thankful to God for this wonderful life we are given here.

The truth is the more you love, the more thankfulness fills your heart. The more you love, the more joy you create in your life. Make the most of each day you are given here then. Be thankful for the glorious gift of life. Be the blessing you were meant to be and make every day Thanksgiving Day.

I had the meanest mother in the world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal (麦片粥), eggs and toast. Others had cokes and candy for lunch, while we had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different from the other kids’. But at least I was not alone in my suffering. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.

My mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing. We had to wear clean clothes every day. Other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of disgrace (丢脸) because she made our clothes herself, just to save money.

The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by 9:00 each night and up at 7:45 the next morning. So while my friends slept, my mother actually had the courage to break Child Labor Law. She made us work. I believed she lay awake all night thinking up mean things to do to us. Through the years, our friends’ report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother, however, would merely be content with black marks. None of us was allowed the pleasure of being a dropout (辍学者).

She forced us to grow up into educated and honest adults. Using this as a background, I’m now trying to bring up my three children. I’m filled with pride when my children think I am mean because now I thank God every day for giving me the meanest mother in the world.

I stare at the row of jars filled with my parents’ homemade tomato sauce. Every time I wonder: “Should I really use one?” I have been saving these jars like precious treasures. No matter how hard I try to find something instead, nothing compares. Store-bought sauces? It just doesn’t taste right. It doesn’t taste like home.

During the tomato season, all my family were a lot busier than usual. My parents would use the basement as an area for letting the tomatoes they had collected locally ripen. Like the other Italian families in the area, we would then take them to the garage when they were ripe enough. There they were cleaned and boiled. Once stewed (炖), whole tomatoes were passed through my father’s homemade machine used to separate the sauce from the skins. Jars at the ready, we filled them with sauce and seasoning. They would then be lined up and ready to use.

My parents would make more than just sauce every fall. I loved it when they would season all the pork sausage. We would fry the meat, tasting it before making the separate sausages. My parents expertly hand-tied the sausages while I would poke (戳) them all over. These were my family’s traditions.

These traditions were hard to maintain when my father got ill. After being diagnosed with cancer in 2019, he spent most of his time in hospital. In September that year he came home, on the same weekend we decided to continue the tradition. I have glorious (美好的) memories of that day as they once again made the sauce. It was a beautiful but short-lived moment. My father died soon after.

Every time I go to reach for one of the jars, something stops me. My mother, ever practical, was visiting us recently and just stared at them. “You should use these or they will go to waste.”

What will it feel like to use that last jar? It would mean the end of an era (时代). Who knows? Maybe it’s time to bring new traditions to life.