She stood in line with her two daughters, all three of them holding on to the extremely overloaded shopping cart. She couldn’t wait to check out and from the looks of things, the customer in front of her would certainly be a while.
She sighed, shaking her head “no” for the 20th time at her youngest, who had suddenly developed a great fascination for the 20-pound Butterball turkey perched proudly on top of three cases of Sierra Mist.
“If you don’t stop pinching the turkey, you are going to break through the plastic he is wrapped in. Now leave it be!”
She smiled apologetically at the man behind her, who she now noticed was holding a large frozen turkey entrée, some pre-prepared mashed potatoes, and a box of Stove Top dressing.
“Sir, please go ahead of me,” she said. “You only have a few items in your arms.” The gentleman nodded and she gently steered the cart and her little ones off to the side so the man could go through.
“Thank you, Miss,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
She wondered whether or not this older gentleman planned on having his Thanksgiving dinner alone, and she watched as he placed his items on the conveyer belt before she asked, “Are you all set for Thanksgiving?”
He smiled at her then. “Sure am. Got my stuff right here.”
“Are you having family over?” she asked.
“Nope. Just me, the two kitties and my old pup. We will eat at about eleven and then settle in for the Macy’s parade. How about you?”
He eyed her shopping cart and grinned at her daughters, who stood quietly beside their mother; obviously tired and anxious to go out to the car. The Butterball, thankfully unharmed by curious little fingers, remained in place; soon to be transported to the family sideboard where it would eventually unthaw. The glorious bird would be injected with luscious herbs and spices, baked tenderly in a stainless steel, jumbo- sized convection wall oven, and then take its regal position on an elaborately decorated dinner table for all to admire.
“We’re having 13 people total,” she said. “I still have three pies to bake and I just can’t decide upon which vegetables to serve. You know, I am sort of stressed out!”
The gentleman laughed. “I can imagine, young lady! Kind of takes the fun out of it, huh?”
She shook her head in agreement. The man reached out and placed his left hand gently on the breast of the Butterball. He wore a thin gold wedding band on his ring finger, which, despite its narrow width and obvious age, danced in the bright fluorescent grocery store light. He met her eyes, and spoke softly.
“I learned a long time ago, my dear, that on Thanksgiving Day it is not what is on your plate that counts. It’s what’s in your heart.”
She glanced down once again at the grocery cart, filled with every imaginable, name-brand holiday grocery item on the market. “You are so right, Sir. You are absolutely right.”
There were no more words spoken as she watched him pay for his items and leave the store.
The Aroostook Regional Transportation vehicle was waiting outside and the gentleman climbed the steps slowly; soon lost in the belly of the bus. She and her daughters loaded up their SUV with all of their precious delicacies; making sure the Butterball was secure.
She thought about the next three days and all of the preparation required to create the perfect Thanksgiving meal. She would sit down with her loved ones on that day and she knew from past Thanksgivings that her meal would be a smash! Perfect vegetables, decadent desserts, and of course, the crème de la crème of turkeys: the Butterball.
It just so happened that this year, 2015, it was her turn to say the Thanksgiving grace, and as she thought about the dear gentleman in the store with his frozen turkey entrée and his pre-prepared mashed potatoes, she knew exactly what her prayer would be:
“Thanksgiving is a joyous time and we pray that everyone has the chance to share a meal as we give thanks for our many blessings. In doing so, please let us remember that it is not what is on our plates that counts, but what is in our hearts. Amen.”
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda online at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
