I’m sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. It’s the day before Thanksgiving and there are three women buzzing around me like worker bees. They are related by blood and sweat. They are preparing for the main meal tomorrow.

I am amazed at how they move and accomplish each task without the need for complete sentences between the three of them.

“You want me to . . .”

“Yep, that’ll help.”

“What about the . . .”

“That’s in the fridge behind the . . . “

“Got it.”

They talk about everything but the work at hand. The concoctions going into each bowl and casserole dish and on each platter practically prepare themselves. They can do this blindfolded because it’s the same meal every year.

Thanksgiving meals hang on traditions, including traditional foods that MUST be served. The sweet potatoes have been around since before granny passed away, probably since her great, great, great, great, great, great, great granny fixed the first dish for the family at Jamestown. If we don’t have the sweet potatoes, and not just any sweet potatoes; if we don’t have granny’s sweet potatoes then we might as well not have Thanksgiving at all.

Sentiments run deep this time of year.

Here on my stool, I am mostly in the way of progress. The aisle behind me is narrow. The cabinets behind me hold important ingredients and necessary dishes. A number of times I am asked to scoot forward. I am not asked to hold anything. I am not asked to stir anything.

If I make a comment or ask a question, all movement stops, and I get the look from three directions. The eye contact is uncomfortable. Work resumes without me making a single contribution.

I sigh a useless sigh from my perch when movement outside the front window in the dining room catches my eye. I spot Caleb and Bryson in the front yard tossing a football. I can see the smiles but cannot hear the laughter, though there is evidence of it on their faces.

The smell of dry grass and the feel of the cool ground against my face comes back to me. I’m out in the front yard at the house pretending to be Johnny Unitas. A long pass over by the bush next to the driveway. A touchdown between the two oaks out near the road.

Whenever the house was full and busy around Thanksgiving, I would beg someone to go outside and play football with me. My sister wasn’t gonna get dirty. I had to hope an older cousin would have some mercy on me. I loved yard-ball.

Since I am so little help in the kitchen, I wonder if the boys will let me throw the ball around with them.

“I’m going outside.”

I announce this to the kitchen crew thinking that they’ll miss my charm and wit. What I get in return is an “okay” followed by a “hand me that bowl.”

I walk out onto the front porch and stand at the edge for a moment, leaning against the post at the top of the steps. The boys are rolling around on the ground, tussling for the ball. Strings of dry grass are stuck in their hair and on the back on their shirts.

I never really played any organized football to amount to anything. My one attempt in 7th grade ended abruptly when Bruce Berry broke through the line carrying the ball.

Coach Orr had taught us how to tackle. We pushed the skid around. We ran through the drills. Grab. Lift. Drive backwards with your legs.

Most of the guys I had tackled in practice up to this point were standing still. Bruce was running at full tilt with his head down.

As I lay there, flat on my back, gasping to get my diaphragm working again, it occurred to me that this may be the end of my professional career in football.

We played a lot of flag football in PE that year. Coach Orr gave us net-like jerseys. We played on a shortened field up on the back of the baseball outfield so two games could go on at once. Flag football was more like yard-ball. Pushing. Shoving. Tussling. Not so many direct hits.

The boys see me standing there.

“Hey Doc.” I have been gifted a nickname. “Can you throw the ball to us?”

My first thought was about the tendonitis in my throwing arm. But the 10-year-old in me convinced me not to worry. I was actually hoping they would ask.

“Sure,” I said.

It’s a small youth-size football. I wish I’d had one like this when I was a kid. My old leather ball was the size of a blimp to my small hands.

“How ‘bout this?” My mind is going back nearly 60 years. “I’ll be quarterback and you two take turns at wide receiver and defensive back.”

A grownup always made yard-ball more interesting. It gave us someone who had a chance at throwing a decent pass. Playing catch is fun when there’s only two of you. But catching a football on a flat-out run is better.

There are no real rules in the front yard. No set plays. No defined boundaries. No clear goal line. Play goes on until it’s too dark to see the ball, or someone gets hurt and has to go home. Almost any yard will do.

Bryson and I huddle-up first. My natural instincts take over and I turn my back to Caleb so he can’t see the play unfold as Bryson draws it out on the palm of my upturned hand. I don’t think I’ve done this since 1968.

He draws with his index finger. “I’m gonna go this way, then stop and hook back over here, then I’m gonna turn hard and run long.”

“You want it over your left shoulder?”

“Yup.”

Caleb is lying on his back in the grass waiting on us to come up to the line. He gets up, shimmies his hips, and in true yard-ball fashion he trash-talks his cousin. “You’re going down.”

I make up a cadence that includes a Down, Set, and a Hut-One. Bryson is gone in a flash. He hooks back and goes long. I set my feet and come overhand with the ball. It spirals and falls just outta reach to the wide receiver.

Caleb takes a turn. In the huddle he draws out his route for me, which includes 8 zigs, 4 zags, 14 run-over-heres, 5 circle-backs, 1 over-by-the-well-house, and 2 go-longs.

“When do you want me to throw you the ball?” This is really all I want to know. “I’m not Johnny Unitas, ya know.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Tell me when to throw it.”

“Throw it to me when I raise my hand.”

I hit him right in the numbers on the 14th zig.

Lord, I love the holidays. The past merging with the present. The women carrying on the family history in the kitchen. Little boys playing out in the yard, unaware that they are touching an old man’s soul.

It’s no wonder we give thanks for each and every blessing.