A family sits down to Thanksgiving dinner in this photo from the Nov. 26, 1964 edition of the Portland Press Herald. Clipping from Newspapers.com

I think I understand why Thanksgiving is such a popular travel holiday in the U.S., with some 80 million people expected to hit the skies and roads.

It is all about family, and celebrating the harvest with those both near and far.

It’s a time for coming home. Christmas is celebratory also, but there seems less time then for relaxation, conversation and just being together, what with the rush of shopping, opening of gifts and myriad festivities.

Thanksgiving is a holiday wide open for slowing down and embracing others — sharing the cooking, catching up, reminiscing, sitting down to a leisurely meal and giving thanks for all that we have.

Anticipation is the word that comes to mind as I recall Thanksgivings of my 1960s childhood. In my youthful perspective, untarnished with worldly considerations that come with age, my wants were simple: to see my grandmother climb the porch steps in the snow, travel bag in one hand, mincemeat pie in the other, my father right behind, having collected her in his old Buick.

My maternal grandmother, Nettie Rowell, was a retired teacher — no nonsense, practical, literary and a great pastry chef. Her mincemeat, made from scratch, was delicious. Physically, she was slim and trim and wore classic dresses belted at the waist. A Katharine Hepburn lookalike with high cheekbones, expressive, intelligent eyes and an inimitable laugh, she was not only a great conversationalist and storyteller, but also our role model for how to be mannerly, respectful, resourceful.

She and my mother taught us young girls how to set an elegant holiday table, and we shared the duties: sliding our round dining room table apart from either end and inserting slats to make it longer and oblong, fetching the white cotton tablecloth from the buffet drawer and ironing it until not a crease remained and placing it carefully on the table, making sure it it hung equally on all sides. We covered it with an antique hand-crocheted lace tablecloth gifted to us by our paternal grandmother, Isabella Shields.

We set the table with our best dishes from the china closet, collected silverware from the polished wooden tray atop the buffet and assembled a table set for a king. It all seemed so grand.

Our Thanksgiving feast included the best of everything — mashed potatoes, carrots and squash from our garden, Dad’s delicious stuffing that, try as I might, I can’t seem to replicate, Mom’s homemade mustard pickles, black and green olives ( a holiday treat!), pearl onions, tiny green peas, turnip and cranberry sauce.

My folks roasted the bird slowly, starting in the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning, so at dawn we would wake to the aroma of turkey and stuffing wafting up the stairs and into our bedrooms.

With my parents, grandmothers (both grandfathers died before I was born) and my six siblings at the table, the dining room was full for the big meal.

Afterward, we transferred pies from the kitchen to our table — chocolate, banana and coconut cream, squash, apple and raspberry pies baked by my mother and topped with her freshly whipped cream. Often she would make Spanish cream, a frothy dessert poured warm into individual glass serving bowls to gel, with a bit of chopped nuts and maraschino cherries placed at the bottom. Topped with a spoonful of whipped cream, it was exquisite.

It was a good day, replete with warmth, good food and love. Yes, lots of that, thanks to the grownups who  ensured we were nourished, not only physically, but spiritually and intellectually as well.

Though those gatherings are lost to time, the memories sustain my great fondness for the holidays.

Happy Thanksgiving, and may your day be fruitful and kind.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 35 years. Her columns appear here Saturdays. She is the author of the book, “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at acalder@centralmaine.com. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com