 Thanksgiving in Brazil Around 1970, I had a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving in Brazil. Brazilians didn’t land on Plymouth Rock. Nor did they celebrate Thanksgiving a year later with Indians so there is no Thanksgiving celebration in Brazil. Because there isn’t a holiday, all of the American missionaries on the seminary campus got together every year for a Thanksgiving dinner. When it was over, we returned to our usual obligations. Since it was a regular school day, I had to teach an English class afterward. The mission director’s wife always orchestrated the event, and it was held in their house. The only turkeys in Brazil were wild ones and they were tough. Because of that we always had roast chicken with all of the trimmings that were available. She always provided an elegant ambiance with music and her best china. We had a Thanksgiving prayer by the mission director. Sometimes we sang a song, or our children put on a small program. The result was the same as in the States. It was a wonderful meal with the only family we had in Brazil….our mission family. “I couldn’t eat another bite,” I said, as I headed up the sidewalk to teach my English class. It consisted of about fifteen students. Several were Japanese, some Portuguese, African and various others. Many of these same students had been in classes that I had previously taught. When I opened the door to the classroom, it was to a chorus of “Surprise!”. Eunice Fujisaka said, “We knew this was a special day for you, so we asked the cooks to help us prepare a party for you. I made candy covered peanuts. The cooks made “pasteis” (little, fried meat pies) and we have popcorn.” Saito, with a gleam in his eyes, chimed in, “Do you remember the Japanese goodies that I brought to the student international party? I had the lady who made them make some more for this class.” Boy, did I remember! At the international party, he had put one on each of my three daughters’ plates, and of course, I had t o take one. I ended up with four of those lumps on my plate, which ultimately felt like four rocks in my stomach. They were reddish brown sweet bean candies that I never wanted to taste again but it was obvious that I would taste them again at this Thanksgiving party (no offense to any Japanese person reading this story). I really appreciated the students’ thoughtfulness and celebrated Thanksgiving again with them. They never knew that I could not eat another bite. I was thankful for the privilege of being in Brazil and for my students. And as it was at the first Thanksgiving, the Indians came and shared food with a pilgrim. Together we raised our pewter mugs (aluminum cups from the school cafeteria) that were filled with punch. Our toast was to our respective homelands, “Viva os Estados Unidos! Viva Brasil!” Oh, in case you want to try these Japanese sweets, here is the recipe for Red Bean Dessert 7 ½ ounces of canned crushed red-bean paste 2 tablespoons plus 2/3 cup water 7 1/3 ounces of rice flour (shiratama) Sugar for sprinkling, optional Cook the red-bean paste with 1 to 2 tablespoons of water over medium heat. Cool. Place the rice flour in a bowl and gradually add the remaining 2/3 cup of water mixing with your fingers until you have a smooth dough. Form the dough into a large ball. Break and roll into 1-inch balls or squares. Flatten and make a small depression in the center of each. Sprinkle with sugar if desired. ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2020 Photography/graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck
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 Thanksgiving My Dad’s birthday was November 24. It often fell on Thanksgiving and if not, sometime thereabout. Most people are unhappy to have their birthday on a holiday. My Dad was happy to have his birthday celebration on Thanksgiving because it meant family and good food, both of which he was happy to have a lot of. We always had turkey and all of the fixings that went with it. My Dad always helped my mother get the turkey in and out of the oven and carved it. Since it was also hunting season, he either went out after his big meal to hunt but more often went hunting the next day. Sometimes it was alone or with family members (my sister Kathleen’s husband Lon) or even with Junior Dunlap and friends. John Dunlap, Jr had friends in New York who came to Ohio to hunt with him. My Dad and Junior were friends so my Dad was usually invited. The only gun my Dad owned was a shotgun. It had a terrible kick that left bruise marks on the shooter’s shoulder. I believe it had belonged to his father, Amos Francis. I thought everyone might like to see another photo of “the man for all seasons” after one of his hunting adventures. And yes, my mother cleaned whatever he brought home and we ate it. Pheasant has a wild taste but it is good! However, today, I don’t eat squirrels, rabbits, ground hogs or o’possums. Not that I haven’t eaten them. : ) Oh, Happy Thanksgiving! ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2020 Photography/graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck Fashion Sense
My sense of fashion started early. When I was young, my mother made my younger sister Betty and me wear beige colored, cotton, ribbed stockings to school. I hated them. They were cumbersome and had to be held up with elastic garters. I wore them to school, went into the bathroom in the basement of the school and rolled them down (my mother never knew). When my daughter Michele heard this account, she asked, “You mean like Olive Oyle?” Well yes, like Olive Oyle. I’m sure I looked worse than if I had left them up. Unlike kids today, my parents biggest clothing expenses were winter coats and shoes. We got a new cardigan sweater every winter in our favorite color. Mine was always green. They sacrificed for us to have winter clothes. We sometimes got our coats at Sharffs and shoes at Block’s. I had narrow feet so Block’s was the only place I could buy shoes that fit. The older “Blockie” and his son were nice men and always x-rayed our toes to make sure the shoes fit. The x-ray machine looked like a water fountain but you put your feet in at the bottom and looked through an opening in the top. My mother had a penchant for jewelry. One year at Christmas she measured around our necks for glass bead necklaces that she ordered. She got a real kick out of me because I accused her of measuring us for undershirts, which I also hated. My daughter Michele, who does fantastic graphics for this blog, commented that we always seemed to have nice clothes. My mother was a good seamstress and made some of my clothes seen in my blog. The fact is that we never had more than four or five outfits at any given time. My grandson Isaac recently commented to me that I wear the same outfits all of the time. He said he could name each one. I guess when you have grown up with the bare necessities, old habits die hard. ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2020 Photography/graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck  Denny Jackson Williamsport was a little, big town with people to take care of you from birth to death. C.E. Hill was the undertaker and an insurance agent. Convenient to have an undertaker and insurance agent to be the same person don’t you think? When Betty and I went home from school in the afternoon, we often walked by Mr. Hill’s house which was also his establishment. It was so nice in autumn because he had a buckeye tree hanging over the fence. Some of the buckeyes fell on the front sidewalk. We always picked up as many buckeyes as we could and filled our pockets. Some years later, I had to visit there to see one of my classmates who had met with a tragic death. Denny Jackson was in my class at school. He didn’t graduate with me. I don’t know if he went elsewhere or went into the Army. He was tall, lanky and always happy. He was a fun and loving kind of guy. He joined the army and was sent to Germany. While there, he was crossing a railroad track when a train roared by. He waited for it to pass then crossed the track not realizing that another train was coming in the opposite direction on an adjacent track. He was hit by the train. He was sent to the funeral home in a glassed-in coffin. I went to see him. Half of his face had been reconstructed with wax. The Army did a good job and he looked honorable and like himself. I was proud to have known him. If you want to pay respect to him this Veteran’s Day, he is buried in Williamsport’s Springlawn Cemetery. As the song by Billy Ray Cyrus goes, “All gave some, some gave all”. Denny Jackson gave all. May God bless and keep all of our military men and women. ©Marilyn Francis Ferguson 2020 Photography/graphics by Michele Ferguson Schuck |
Marilyn Francis FergusonGrowing up in Williamsport, Ohio is a blog by Marilyn Francis Ferguson which describes small town life in the 1940s and 1950s. Blog Categories
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