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Memories are wonderful and fascinating things. Saturday morning at the Turnage Theater, I attended a beautiful Latino/Hispanic Heritage event, Dia De Los Muertos, that included a movie (‘Coco’) and learning about the tradition of ofrendas. As I left the theater, I walked along Main Street amid a sea of beautiful amber and brown leaves on the sidewalk. Walking through those leaves crunching under my feet, brought back a flood of memories about my childhood during the fall season.

I especially loved the month of November as a child, as the colors of autumn were like a kaleidoscope for me. Everywhere I turned was an amazing display of color.

As I walked through the leaves, I found myself singing some of the songs I learned in elementary school that ushered in the Thanksgiving season. Our school’s music teacher Mrs. Mary Smitherson Randolph, would roll her piano into the classroom and take out her music sheets. She was always a welcomed sight in the classroom as she taught us the joy, beauty and merit of all kinds of songs.

But it was in November when she directed our young minds towards being grateful for the things we had. I will never forget this. Thank you, Mrs. Randolph.

Here are the words to ‘Come Ye Thankful People Come’ written by Henry Alford in 1844, that Mrs. Randolph taught us in fourth grade. Mrs. Randolph sang and taught us the words with such reverence, joy and respect for the words. And it is in the same spirit I share the words with you.

1. Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home!
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied.
Come to God’s own temple, come;
Raise the song of harvest home!

2. We ourselves are God’s own field,
Fruit unto his praise to yield.
Wheat and tares together sown
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear;
Grant, O harvest Lord, that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

3. For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take the harvest home.
From His field shall in that day
All offenses purge away,
Giving angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast.
But the fruitful ears to store
In the garner evermore.