November 21

Dear Diary,
I never want to mash another yam in my life! I’m about worn out on sweet potato casserole! We started cooking Friday after school and all day Saturday. I mashed all those stupid potatoes, and put cranberries through the grinder, and chopped apples and nuts, and squeezed oranges, and cleaned green beans. I don’t think I could make a fist right now if I had to, my hands are that stiff. And I love the way Thanksgiving dinner smells, but when you smell it for two days running in a huge cafeteria kitchen, it just makes you kind of sick.

We got six trucks this time, because those turkeys take up room. Lots of men came, too, to help carry food back on the trails. The weather was cold and grey and smelled like snow; I expected to see flakes any minute. We dropped a dinner off at Abby Mae’s house, because money’s a little tight for her family, as well—and invited them to join us on Thursday. In my heart, Diary, I hope they’ll decide to move to Green Lake—but her daddy’s pretty proud. He runs the hardware store and deli. Anyway, we managed to get all our food delivered. There was one family with six kids living in a single-wide trailer; I don’t know how they do it. In the warm weather, you can run outside, but in the winter you’re all stacked up together. There was hardly space for the food. Mama was talking under her breath when we left, because you could see they mostly ate white bread and lard—but all the kids were drinking soda. There were cases of it under the trailer.  Mama said that money could buy decent food. Daddy said they might have traded for it, or even stolen it. Mama said if you were going to steal for your kids, it might as well be healthy stuff. We also stopped at the house of an old man who was lying in his bed covers because he didn’t have any heat. Daddy chopped him some firewood and made a fire, while Mama and I served him a meal. I put him on my list for people needing Heart Threads help right away.

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