My family’s Thanksgiving traditions are much like many Americans today and are rooted in my upbringing. Our Thanksgiving celebration seemed to center around food. Better said, a meal. A specific time for all of our family gathered around a table to enjoy the finest foods my mother and grandmother prepared. The meal itself was, perhaps, almost an excuse for us to spend time together. All together. In the same house. Out of the hustle and bustle of our daily whirlwind.
My immediate family wasn’t very large. I grew up in an old country house. My maternal grandparents had their living quarters in one end of the house. My parents, my sister and I had our living quarters in the other end of the house. We all shared the living room, dining room, kitchen and den in the middle of the house. This was for my sister and me akin to having two sets of parents. Our maternal grandparents were very youthful and outgoing and curious. We were disciplined by both our parents and grandparents. That discipline was very consistent. For both my sister and me this meant challenging us with high expectations regardless of the endeavor – school, chores, extracurricular activities, family, friends and our spirituality. For me, in particular, it meant I generally received two sets of whippings (well deserved, I might add) when I did not behave according to their standards.
Every time I pull into the driveway of Dream Meadows Farm, I am visually reminded of the number of trees I cut my own switches from in order to receive my just punishment. I’m certain there are folks that will read this article and gasp at the fact that I received “corporal punishment” from my parents and grandparents. Yes, I did. Yes, I now thank God for those “blessings” from my folks. Lord knows how I would have turned out otherwise. I deserved every single one. None of them were extreme (although some might should have been). Once I reached the age my parents felt the switch was no longer appropriate (more likely they grew tired of having to use the switches so often), they tried a new tactic: The talk. Those “talks” were always more effective on me – at least by the time I reached my teenage years. I dreaded a “talk.” I always felt far worse after a “talk.” The last thing in the world I ever wanted to do was disappoint my family.
Like a lot of people I know, the older I get, the smarter my folks have become in my mind. They knew well what they were doing with “the talk.” My last stern “talk” came from my father Thanksgiving week when I was 16 years old. I got a few after that one, but none have more meaning in my memory. Myself and four other boys had driven down to Nashville to enjoy some adult time including a few beers at Tootsie’s Bar on Broadway (which is still in operation). Back then, the legal drinking age in Tennessee was 18, and frankly, they didn’t care if you were 18 or not. If you had a dollar, you could buy a beer. Well, we 16-year-old boys decided it might be fun to go give lower Broadway a whirl. This was before all the re-birth of lower Broadway. During that era this was a rough part of Nashville after dark. Certainly not where I would want my children to be ranging about when they were 16 years of age. We parked on Broadway right in front of Service Merchandise, crossed the street and walked in that bar like we had good sense. Not long after we arrived at Tootsie’s, a fight broke out on the dance floor. It was like all Hell broke loose in that place. Along with a bunch of our friends we had never met before, we exited through the back door into the loving arms of Nashville’s finest men and women of law enforcement. We were only confined for about an hour when they realized we were mere babes. A police matron drove all five of us (yes, one squad car and no seat belts) back to my car, made me swear I had only drank one beer, and told us to get on I-65 North and to not come back to Nashville without our parents until were at least 18 years old. Having taken a pinky promise between all five of us to never speak of this night again, we all felt secure this horrible experience would never get out. About one week later while finishing up my homework in the den, my father came in and asked me about my latest trip to Nashville. I replied, “Of course, when we all went to the Nashville airport to pick up mother after her trip to New York?” “No,” he said, “When you went down there drinking with some other underage friends of yours and got arrested because of a barroom brawl.” He’d caught me. “Why on earth did you and those boys drive to Nashville and go drinking in a bar?” he said.
Even though I knew he had me dead to the rights, a brilliant idea came into my mind. My father was a very spiritual man. “Daddy, even Jesus went amongst the sinners,” I said. After a pause he handed me his pocket knife and said, “While you’re out in the yard cutting your switch, I want you to ponder this thought – and I hope you’ll keep it with you forever, son: You ain’t Jesus.” That talk is still etched in memory.
This year during the Thanksgiving season, I’m certainly giving thanks for my upbringing. I’m giving thanks for all those who have left an indelible mark on my life. I’m hopeful that you too will be able to take some time to think and be grateful and thankful for those that have helped you along your way. Wishing you a happy and peaceful Thanksgiving.
-by Ben Smith
Registered Principal, RJFS
313 East 10th Ave. Bowling Green, KY 42101 Phone: 270-846-2656
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