I was caught outside one morning when the front blew in. I had consolidated my hens the night before and was checking on their transition. Winter is coming and tending to one coop is brutal enough during the icy mornings, so they have to all live together during the colder months. Sorry chicks, but that’s the rules here. Anyway, for those of you who do not keep chickens, they are not okay with new members entering their flock. “Birds of a feather flock together” is a truism in the chicken world. Because of this and because chickens are not very “scholarly,” I always move new hens into the coop with the previous hens during the night when the chickens are somewhat blind and, therefore, not aware, otherwise, the “pecking order” becomes an issue and some may not survive. The next morning, hopefully, the new hens are just part of the group and everyone gets along. That’s what I was doing when the wind became a North wind, blowing leaves and hinting at a forthcoming chill; the front had arrived, summer was definitely over. The cool wind was welcome but it blew in a small gust of melancholy, as it always does.

With the fronts, come the holiday season, the first one being Thanksgiving, and with the holiday season, comes a potpourri of emotions, most of them are joyful but some are reflective. The latter is a focus of this piece.

It seems as though I can smell the hint of sage in my Grandma Farris’ cornbread dressing and anticipate Tom Turkey will soon sit on the special white platter in the center of my mother’s table as she stands next to the Thanksgiving feast in her holiday apron tensely watching my dad unwillingly, but skillfully, tackle the carving of the celebrated Bird. This iconic, Norman Rockwell event happened year after year. I suppose I thought it would never end; they would always be there in the Thanksgiving kitchen laughing, talking, hugging my babies and feeding turkey and creamed potatoes to my small children, but as you know, nothing is forever.

This is, for many of us, the time of year when everyone special in your life enters your physical space and vividly enters your memory. By the time you reach my age, there are, unfortunately, a few empty seats at the symbolic table. But, the holidays are good, they are the catalyst that intensifies our memories from times past and welcomes us to openly recall, to share stories and actively include everyone we love in our circle of life, past and present. The holidays are an invitation to remember. We, once again, for a short moment, are enclosed in a circle of rich memory and love, thankful for all that are here and thankful for time spent with and the memory of those who are not.

As in nature, with the falling leaves of autumn, come a few falling tears as the North winds blow, causing us to remember days gone by. Along the wisps of the breeze, however, there is exultation for the approaching celebrations and hope and energy for the new year ahead. Though sad to see the bareness on the trees and in our lives, there beneath our feet are wondrous colors, beautiful acts of God to celebrate the season and to enjoy, as life unfolds in yet, another way.

Pull out your grandma’s cornbread dressing recipe, the one with the butter smudges and deep creases, make your sister’s rice dressing, wear your mother’s tattered apron, think of them, talk about them and keep them near.

Best wishes at Thanksgiving to all of you who follow my Sunday column. For that, I am especially thankful. Be happy … the people that love you, wish that for you.

PAM SHENSKY is a wife and mom to five.