Over the River and through the Woods

By Donna Poole

“Over the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go,” the kids used to sing when they were little and we made our annual Thanksgiving trek, the van loaded with food, to celebrate the holiday with family. How blessed we are, I often reflected on the drive, to have three of the four sisters living in Michigan. Who would have thought?

We Piarulli girls spent our growing-up years in New York State. My sisters, Eve and Ginny, along with their husbands and families, ended up in Michigan before we did. I never dared hope I’d live anywhere near a sister, but a year after John graduated from Bible college in Iowa, a tiny country church in Michigan asked him to come as pastor. There we’ve been ever since. So we became three sisters living in Michigan and deeply missing Mary, our New York sister, every time we gathered together.

Let me tell you something about Michigan. Just because three sisters live in Michigan doesn’t mean they will live anywhere near each other. The distance from our house in southern Lower Michigan to Eagle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is over 590 miles and takes over nine hours to travel in light traffic. Chattanooga, Tennessee is closer to us.  

But we three sisters were blessed. It took no more than a three hour drive for any of us to reach the other.

The drive to and from Eve and Bruce’s was full of traditions. “There’s the spanking place,” one of the kids hollered every year.

I always felt a bit miffed. Why, when we had so many wonderful memories, did they always point out the place where just once, years before, we’d pulled into an empty parking lot and spanked all of them before we arrived in time to stuff our faces with turkey and give thanks?

On the ride home the kids traditionally begged, “Wake us up to see the Christmas lights.”

When we got to the town that always lit its tree on Thanksgiving evening, John woke sleepy kids and sleepy me. I’m notorious for falling asleep in the car. There’s something about the rhythm of the wheels singing that lullaby, “Over the river and through the woods. . . .”

Years passed, and the stuffed turkey had nothing to brag about in comparison to the stuffed rooms at Eve and Bruce’s. Kids grew up, married, had children of their own, and still we all gathered “over the river and through the woods.”

That beautiful tradition ended when God called Eve home. Extended family began driving over the river and through the woods to gather at our home. Everyone helps with the meal and the food is as good as it ever was; our home rings with love and laughter, but it’s not the same. How could it be? Eve isn’t with us. This year another family member joined her in heaven, and more than one heart will smile through tears on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving was Eve’s holiday. I’m just pinch-hitting for her for a while. I do my best to spread the love for as long as I’m here, because someday someone will have to take over for me.

When Thanksgiving Day ends all too soon, we linger first at the door, then on the porch, next in the driveway in the traditional, drawn-out Midwestern kind of goodbye. There are a few rounds of hugs.

When Ginny can be with us I always fiercely hug her and whisper, “When will I see you again?” I cry because I love her. I cry because I really don’t like goodbyes.

One by one, cars and trucks leave. Our volunteer fireman son flashes his lights in the driveway so his nieces and nephews—and his mom—can see them and smile with delight.

John and I are two old people with tears in our eyes waving until the last taillights disappear down our gravel road, thanking God for memories of yesterday and today, and wondering how many more times we’ll have to gather together. Will someone else be missing next year when family gathers from over the river and through the woods?

I know what Eve would do if she were here. She’d hug me tightly. She’d remind me we’ll have forever together in heaven. She’d tell me to get back in the house before I catch cold. In my heart, I can see her beautiful smile and hear her say, “Good job, Donna. Thank you. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving.”