In the spirit of Thanksgiving, let's journey together from my now hometown of Eureka Springs, Arkansas to my original hometown, the very place, nestled in the heart of New England, that raised me ...
Come along with me to Medford, Massachusetts ...
Ah, Medford, Massachusetts — the crown jewel of the "just fifteen minutes from Boston" towns, a place where the history’s so thick you could ladle it like clam chowdah. Or at least that’s how it felt growing up. Yes, I am one of those people — born in Somerville, MA and raised in the heart of Medford, that "ford by the meadow." A poetic name, sure, but as a kid, I never stopped to think about why a meadow needed a ford or what, precisely, a ford even was. Yet here we are, a little older, possibly wiser, and reflecting on those days in Medford when history seemed to cling to everything — especially in school.
The Medford Public Schools, bless them, teamed up with the Medford Historical Society, giving every kid in town a crash course in our forebears’ exploits. And let’s be honest, when you’re eight, hearing about how your hometown was a hub of rum distilling and shipbuilding stirs something deep in the soul — or maybe that’s just the secondhand rum fumes. Regardless, those lessons sparked something in me, and soon, little me was knee-deep in family trees, convinced I might stumble upon royalty or pirates on the Mayflower in my ancestry. I think this is when my spark for writing took hold.
Years passed, and Medford stayed Medford — a quilt of memories, one thread woven into the next. And as life would have it, Jeff and I eventually found our way to another historic town, Eureka Springs, Arkansas, with its own peculiar charm. It’s like Medford, but with more ghosts and less snow. Inspired by this unexpected move, I started this blog -- I Love Eureka -- (shameless plug, yes), to document the joys of life here. Now, if you're intrigued by small-town idiosyncrasies, I’d say, go ahead, follow along. And if you're not … well, I won’t take it personally. (www.iloveureka.com)
Back in the 1800s, Thanksgiving was just a quaint regional pastime up in New England. It was like a club, a little “Thanksgiving Club,” and you had to know the secret knock (or maybe the password was “cranberries,” who knows). It wasn’t even fixed to November! Take President James Madison, who, in his infinite wisdom, declared Thanksgiving for April 13, 1815. Thanksgiving in April! Imagine the confusion — do you make pumpkin pie or lamb stew? And who’s got a turkey handy in April?
Of course, it wasn’t until Abraham Lincoln’s time —1863— that Thanksgiving was nailed down to the final Thursday in November, forever sparing us from the terror of trying to find cranberries in April.
Now, there’s this iconic Thanksgiving tune, Over the River and Through the Wood. Yes, the same one that’s had children singing about sleigh rides and wind-burned noses since Lydia Maria Child penned it back in 1844. And wouldn’t you know it, Lydia was a Medford native, proving once again that Medford folks have a knack for making it into the history books. The song, you’ll recall, was originally twelve stanzas long — twelve! That’s eleven more than you need for any song sung by a third grader on a sugar high.
What’s fascinating is this song captures what Lydia herself might never have known. She was the last of five kids, born to a father with a fondness for melancholy and a mother who wasn’t exactly Mrs. Warmth. She grew up feeling rather … superfluous, which, in Medford, was practically a rite of passage. Yet there she was, writing about a family holiday she probably didn’t even get to experience — projecting that wistful image of “Grandfather’s house” that may or may not have even existed.
But it’s the song’s spirit, isn’t it? The idea of that snowy sleigh ride to a cozy haven, family waiting by a warm fire, the smell of pies—fruit, savory, meat—wafting through the air. That’s the magic of Thanksgiving in Medford, or in Eureka Springs, or wherever we find ourselves—bundled up, feeling oddly nostalgic for a past we may never have actually lived.
Child’s story is a New England classic. From her days penning abolitionist pamphlets that got her socially exiled, to her “Frugal Housewife” cookbook for the penny-pinching puritans of Medford, she was as unyielding as a New England winter. And the Thanksgiving memories she left us — a sleigh ride, a brisk winter chill, the elusive Grandfather’s house — continue to resonate, whether you're shivering in Medford or soaking up the Ozark sun in Eureka Springs.
So, as Thanksgiving approaches, wherever you find yourself — be it over a river, through some woods, or simply stuck in traffic on the way to a relative’s house — remember the warmth, the nostalgia, and perhaps a dash of mystery that make this holiday what it is. And, like Lydia Maria, let’s give thanks for the people we gather with, the stories we tell, and the histories we build.
Let’s raise a glass (maybe rum, maybe cider) to Lydia Maria Child, my fellow Medfordian for all those wonderful Thanksgivings past and present.
Somewhere out there, Grandfather’s house is still waiting.
Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.❤️
Check out this blog-post! A homage to my beloved Medford and Eureka Springs, entitled Home Is Where The Heart Is.
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