I always look forward to Saturday because it is my writing day. I even wear the same worn, old and comfortable clothes to set the mood.

Today promised to be especially nice because when I looked out the window by my chair, all I can see is beautiful pristine whiteness.

All I know is I feel led to write about Thanksgiving.

I picked up my pen and put it to paper, still not sure what my thoughts would be for my favorite holiday.

I looked at my paper and I had written the word, “Auntie.”

I couldn’t write about Auntie and why I love Thanksgiving so much. That is exactly what I wrote last year.

Auntie is Thanksgiving to me.

I pulled out my copy of what I wrote a year ago and read it. I hate to admit this, but I don’t think I can improve on it.

After rereading it, I realized I still feel exactly the same.

I can read it and hear the squeaks of an old house and the smells.

I can see exactly the same old beautiful furniture and the blankets she made.

I read it no more. I put it away and I give to you my Thanksgiving column of one year ago.

The essence of Auntie — that is what Thanksgiving is to me. It is a soft time, a quiet and peaceful time, a time that makes me feel loved.

I am always with those I love sharing good food, family stories and the proverbial afternoon nap.

Auntie, aged past 90, left this Earth some 30 years ago. But her essence remains with me.

Sitting in my recliner today I knew I wanted to talk about Thanksgiving but every time I start to write I was led back to talk about Auntie.

Auntie lived alone in a small log cabin in the Ozark Mountains.

She was fiercely independent, quick witted, kind and amazingly intelligent.

She went to school until she was 12 years old, at which time she and her twin sister Ethel went to work for the gentry.

Sometimes I wondered what she could have accomplished had she been able to stay in school. Then I realized no school would have made her smarter.

But the true essence had to do with her heart and soul.

She left her imprint on every thing and everyone she touched.

First of all, there’s the scent of Thanksgiving. Every year we went to Auntie’s house. When we opened the heavy wooden door, we were enveloped in the musty, old un-dusted odor as it mingled with the aroma from the iron pots and pans bubbling and baking on her ancient kitchen stove.

The next scent I recall vividly was from her handmade patch quilt. As we slipped between the layers of them for our afternoon nap we could smell the wonderful aroma. Breathing these scents was like filling oneself with peace and love.

Then there was the sound of Thanksgiving — wood crackling in the wood stove, the muted thuds as we walked through her little house and the delicate shifting of uneven floor boards combined with Auntie’s laugh, it was sort of a cackle as she went from room to room. She also cackled when she played Rummy with the children and always managed to let them win.

Thanksgiving taste surpassed the finest restaurant. Her blend of herbs and her cooking for the gentry all culminated at our Thanksgiving table.

But what I taste to this day is the taste of oldness stirred with a loving hand. Whatever I choose, I can see in my mind’s eye exactly what everybody and everything looked like every year.

There were narrow steep stairs that led to two tiny bedrooms upstairs.

Then there was the site of the trash pile we made in her back yard before we set it all on fire.

I see Auntie’s mole on her nose and her long, never cut but once, hair swept up in a loose bun.

I see her hand slap her leg whenever she laughed and I see the quiet, sweet tears in her eyes when we left.

The essence of Auntie is like a symbol to me.

I remember how I felt every year on the way back home. Everybody was quiet and I tried to memorize the few days we had just so enjoyed.

Before leaving, I always ran my fingers across the rich-colored wood table, the nubbiness of the chair seats.

I loved to run my hands through Auntie’s thick white hair and feel the coolness of old china plates as we washed and dried them together.

All these things were etched into my soul and the same feelings blessed me every year just about Thanksgiving time.

I can touch the essence of Auntie all over again.

It is my prayer that each of you feel the same joy and peace.

The view from the mountain is wondrous.

Jean Brody is a passionate animal lover and mother. She previously lived in Winchester, but now resides in Littleton, Colorado. Her column has appeared in the Sun for more than 25 years.