my younger brothers and i came home early to help mom set up. we’re the world’s most opinionated catering crew, a well-oiled machine. we spent hours pulling from inventory and debating this  rough draft layout of a table and its setting. it would surely seem unhinged to any observer. luckily there aren’t any.

the dining room looks good when we’re done.

turn around from the dining room table; there’s the southern table wine, a pitcher of sweet tea in the sun.

bloody mary fixings on the porch. . .

. . . and oysters roasting nearby. people ask where the oysters came from and we answer ‘fed ex’.

my mother-in-law is consuelo, but everyone calls her bela. she spends part of the year in her native spain and brings back souvenirs. bela and our daughter caroline use spanish fans  to encourage the oyster coals.

the fields all around the house are working farmland. even on thanksgiving morning the big machines roll.

tables pop up everywhere. . .

. . . as does plaid.

the living room might seem scenic . . .

. . . or comic. it all depends on the angle.

 

shadows are growing longer, inside. . .

. . . and out on the porch.

jb has found his spot, but caroline and i are restless.

we take off across the fields. massive tire tracks and soybean stubble are the only evidence that john deere has been here.

my brother campbell knows the history of our family and this land best of any in our generation. he gestures across the road. . .

 

. . . to the house in which my great-grandmother zillah sanders was born.

we head back to the house. . .

. . . as twilight comes to the brogden road.