Thanksgiving has a way of stirring up memories — the kind that arrive softly, like the aroma of something warm coming from the kitchen. For me, those memories almost always circle back to Grandma Cooper and her cornucopia. To anyone else, it may look like nothing more than a curved, woven basket stuffed with fruits and vegetables. But to our family, it was much more than a decoration. It was a symbol. A reminder. A gathering point for what mattered most.
A cornucopia, often called a “Horn of Plenty,” traces its name to the Latin words cornu (horn) and copia (abundance). Traditionally, it’s filled with foods of the harvest — apples, pumpkins, grains, nuts — all spilling forward as if to say, “There is enough. More than enough.” And Grandma Cooper believed that message with all her heart.
Her cornucopia sat proudly at the center of the Thanksgiving table, brimming with color and life. To her, it represented the family farm and the bounty God granted each season. Whenever she spoke of it, she would smile gently and quote Psalm 23:5 from the King James Version: “My cup runneth over.” And she meant it. She lived it.
As kids, our role in the tradition was a little different — but no less important. Before we reached those teenage years where everything feels awkward, we cousins were encouraged to color cornucopia pictures. Crayons everywhere. Brown baskets, orange pumpkins, and apples that always ended up a little more red than realistic. Those masterpieces were proudly displayed on the refrigerator or taped to the walls. At the time, I knew it was fun… but I also knew it probably kept us out from underfoot in the kitchen. Still, it made us feel like part of the magic.
Now, as Thanksgiving draws near each year, I find myself drifting back to those moments — the laughter, the warmth, the sense of belonging that wrapped around us like a quilt. And I’m grateful. Deeply grateful.
I’m thankful for the family I had the privilege to grow up with, and thankful for the family we have today. And while the holiday doesn’t always bring every loved one under one roof — as kids grow up, build their own families, and navigate shared holidays — the gratitude remains the same. Whether seated at our table or gathered around another, each one is part of our story.
Looking back, I wouldn’t trade a single Thanksgiving at Grandma Cooper’s house. Not the chaos, not the noise, not the crowded rooms filled with cousins and casseroles. It all shaped who we are. And just like that overflowing basket on Grandma’s table, my heart still feels full. My own cup still runneth over.
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