The seasons in our house were always marked by the centerpiece of our dining room table. We ate at that table only at Sunday dinner and a few special breakfasts — Easter, Christmas. The dining room itself was sacred. It was one of those special adult rooms where my brother and I were not permitted to play or even enter except for those special meals. At Thanksgiving my mother set the centerpiece with a small pumpkin pulled by four porcelain turkeys with reins of dark ribbon. The piece was dominated by harvest colors, orange and brown. Sprigs of corn husk, cobs of maize. Porcelain pilgrims paraded alongside, with Indians fore and aft.

Tantalizing aromas filled the house. The turkey had been stuffed the night before with stuffing that had been marinating for the entire day. Shelves in one of the refrigerators had been cleared and removed to make room for “the bird” as my father referred to it. By mid-afternoon our nostrils quivered at the pungent scent of roasting turkey. Potatoes boiled in a giant pot and next to them rutabagas and peas. A small roaster filled with the dressing that didn’t fit inside the turkey shared the other oven with Yorkshire pudding. Earlier in the day pies had been baked and they sat cooling on the wide, tile counter. Pumpkin, strawberry-rhubarb and apple all added their sticky-sweet essence to the already mouth-watering bouquet of the kitchen.

As I watched my mother moving pans and dishes and saw the turkey golden and glistening with beads of sweet sweat removed and placed on the carving platter, sins of gluttony filled my thoughts. It was my father’s duty, and right, to carve the turkey, and he now entered the kitchen, normally solely my mother’s domain, and began with royal flourishes. While he carved, my mother spiced and flavored the juice in the bottom of the roasting pan now simmering on the stove and becoming thick, tantalizing gravy.

My brother and I were called into service to transport the feast into the dining room. As she handed us each delectable dish, my mother would direct us where to place it. The turkey would go in last, carried by my father and set down in front of him where he could serve us. He always served my mother first as was her due as cook and matron. Then he would serve my brother, who was older, and then me. Finally, with solemn dignity, he served himself, seemingly oblivious to his sons’ chaffing and drooling. And yet we still would have to wait until after we gave thanks for the bounty that lay before us.

I learned much of life and manners at our dining room table. In many ways my parents were old-fashioned, demanding proper manners and respect. My brother and I deferred politely to them when we disagreed, said excuse me if they were already talking and we wished to interject our thoughts and waited to be excused before leaving the table. But there was much love in our family also, and much laughter. My mother insisted mealtime was a time for sharing your day, your adventures and foibles. A time of knitting together each of our lives. A time of seeing our place in the family, in the town and in the world.

Robin Roberts is a writer who lives in Canyon City.