Inspiration

THANKSGIVING COUNTRYSTYLE

By Connie Arnold

A balmy, spring-like day in November is one of North Alabama’s natural wonders. After a quick Sunday lunch of sandwiches, our younger son, Chuck, and his friend, George, piled into our pickup truck and headed out of town to enjoy nature. Our older son had plans that kept him home.

We owned a tiny spot of woods on Jacob’s Mountain in the Paint Rock Valley at the southern-most end of the Appalachian Chain of Mountains, which at this time of the year is as colorful as any place else on earth: the brilliantly-hued leaves of the hardwood trees framed the clear, bubbling stream that was, in reality, the Paint Rock River.

We bumped up the mountain over an old, abandoned logging road filled with boulders and chuckholes. Edward jockeyed the truck into a tight space, leaving the vehicle tucked between two trees.

“We might have trouble turning this truck around when we leave,” he observed, “but we’ll need to be gone before dark.”

The boys melted into the woods, and soon we couldn’t even hear their footsteps.

My husband and I walked a while, then settled on a rock at the base of a large tree to just absorb the serenity of our surroundings: wind in the trees; each bird whistling a different melody. The rich colors of Autumn floated down around us. Soon the sun slid behind a neighboring mountain, and the muted hues became the reminder that it was time to head home.

The prediction that he might not be able to get the truck turned around came true, and no amount of jockeying could get us out

So, we knew we needed walk out of the woods before complete darkness descended. We had no cell phones then.

We stayed on the logging road and walked out of the forest in pitch darkness. Although the rattlesnakes may have turned in for the night, other predators came out to take their places. I’m sure we were all sending up our prayers for help.

We made it to the asphalt road that would lead us back to the main highway. The moonlight now offered light for our paths. The first farmhouse we saw was completely dark but inhabited. Two guarding sentries barked and bounded to the edge of the road where they stopped, daring us to come any further.

The next building on the road was a small church sitting on a rise. Lights shone dimly through the windows, and we could hear singing. By now, the temperature had dropped to an uncomfortable low. My son and I decided to ‘go to church’, mud-splattered jeans and all. My husband and friend, George, too dirty, stayed outside.

At the close of the service, the members of the congregation greeted us warmly. One man took my husband to his house to use the telephone. It would be an hour before our older son could reach us with our ride home.

“You must all be very hungry. Come back to our fellowship hall,” the lady didn’t wait for an answer but turned and expected us to follow. “We had our Thanksgiving Dinner tonight before church, and there’s plenty left.”

They reopened their food baskets and laid out a feast: homegrown vegetables, turkey, dressing, salad, desserts, iced tea and coffee. We benefited from God’s people at this country church displaying a gift of hospitality. It had been seven hours since our lunch; and the boys had complained of hunger all the way while walking out of the woods, so this was the answer to their prayers.

The truck wasn’t damaged and with the help of another pickup with a winch, we retrieved it the next morning.

Four days after our adventure on the mountain, we had our usual Thanksgiving Dinner at home. I knew that our experience with the meeting of the gracious people at the little, country church would remain a warm memory for future Thanksgiving Days.