Thanksgiving, from my earliest memories, has always been one of color, food and family. My grandfather and grandmother, Art and Bertha Hayes, had four children, Elsie, Phil, Chuck and Leo, three of whom lived in the Bradford area.

All family functions automatically took place at Pops’, as we called him, be it holidays, birthdays or other notable occasions. We grandchildren loved this and eagerly looked forward to getting together.

On Thanksgiving Day we youngsters, when we weren’t playing in the basement, would wander into the kitchen occasionally, which was a whirl of activity: noisy conversation, the clang of pots and pans, the clatter of crockery, laughter and people constantly bumping into each other. In a busy kitchen, someone is always where you want to be or in front of the door or drawer you want to open. Curious or perhaps wishing to procure a cookie, we’d eke into corners fascinated by this busy scene where grandma, mom and aunts were preparing the turkey and numerous side dishes and pies.

I always found this intense concentration of effort captivating. Each participant focused on a certain task in the small kitchen and, despite constantly being in each other’s way, the greatest goodwill prevailed. The chaos was taken for granted and bumps, spills and congestion accepted as normal — and often hilariously laughed at.

My Aunt Mary was especially good-natured with a loud and infectious laugh. Being at heart a farm girl, every mishap was a cause of merriment and comment. It was impossible not to be caught up in her optimistic, happy-go-lucky view of small catastrophes.

Eventually, we’d grab our snack or be chased out of this merry scene and return to the basement. There we’d play darts, army, wrestle or invent something to amuse ourselves. No adults were necessary; our imaginations were allowed free rein.

There was a TV but we seldom watched it, being all together was too good an opportunity to waste watching the tube. Depending on the weather we’d play football, ride bikes or take a hike. If there was snow, we’d build snow forts, have long snowball battles or sled on the nearby hill. There was always something to do.

At noon we’d burst into the kitchen, wet, happy and ravenous. Cooking would cease while our conditions were assessed and clothing changes supervised. Lunch was almost always a toasted cheese sandwich, tomato soup and mugs of hot cocoa. This was easy to prepare, took up little stove space and required minimal preparation. It always tasted fabulous and disappeared quickly.

Then we were chased back to the basement with stern warnings not to venture outside as only one change of clothes had been brought.

The men went hunting in the morning and were under strict orders not to return later than 1 o’clock. There were tables to be set up, chairs to arrange, a fire to be built in the fireplace and other tasks to be performed. Protocol demanded they enter through the basement and not stomp into the house through the kitchen spreading snow and mud about and generally disrupting dinner preparations. If you’d bagged a turkey, a triumphal kitchen entry was allowed, but your boots better be off.

Of course, I couldn’t wait to be old enough to join the men. One Thanksgiving morning, Dad, Uncle Leo and I drove to High Street Extension and parked. Dad had seen a flock of turkeys the previous afternoon and had a good idea where they’d roost. We arrived at daylight and laid our plans. By spreading out 200 yards apart we’d climb the very steep hillside angling toward the ridge point drawing steadily closer and converging at the top. Then, if nothing was seen, we’d spread out again and work our way back the ridge.

It was a cold, dark day with low scudding clouds practically scraping the hilltops. I was on the far-right side and commenced the steep climb. In no time I was plenty warm and stopped to unzip my coat. Suddenly, there was a commotion above me as limbs broke, wings flapped and alarm calls erupted as half a dozen turkeys broke out of the treetops and accelerated rapidly down the hillside.

Raising my shotgun I looked frantically for any type of a shot. The turkeys were at top speed now. There was a 20-foot opening visible to my left. Desperately, pointing at the downhill side of that opening I fired when a bird touched the uphill side. To my surprise the turkey somersaulted in the air and hurtled downhill, its spread tail acting as a sail. The turkey finally hit the ground far below me and I crashed down the hillside to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere.

Back at Pop’s, after shedding my boots, I walked proudly into the kitchen carrying my bird. Everyone made a fuss and I felt every bit the hero, fairly bursting with pride. Grandma ordered a quick cleaning and soon two roasting pans were in the oven, the farm bird and mine.

At the table everyone ate both farm and wild, making kind, appropriate comments. What a blessing to have a supportive family, great food and desserts, love and goodwill abounding. As I reminisce over those years and all our family shared, they truly were times of great Thanksgiving.