Visitors arrived in the early morning darkness at about the same time a howling wind and snow produced the season's first blizzard on Thanksgiving eve.

Among them was grandpa who showed me how to tie shoes; a brother who laughed easily and knew where panfish were biting; a nephew who did not live much past his 21st birthday; Dad, who it seemed at times to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders; and Mother, who no longer had bread to bake and meal to make.

The mind, cluttered as it can get with worries and blessed with memories, welcomed the visitors.

Cattle eat more when in a blizzard, Dad reminded me. The wood in the room next to the furnace is running low, and Mother needs help getting the house ready for Thanksgiving when married sons and daughters and their children come.

The basement steps are steep, and her knees ache, he added, so bring potatoes, pickles and beets from the basement. Braided throw rugs ought to be carried to the clothesline to be beaten free from dust and dirt. She needs help dusting the furniture while she waxes the maple floors. And don't complain too much about doing it.

He needed not to worry so much about all that getting done.

Turkey, goose, dressing, and pies would be served in the farmhouse, which was much too small for hosting such a crowd. With so much food, there wasn't any need for her suet pudding made from beef tallow, nuts and spices.

Grownups ate at the kitchen table that was topped with a tablecloth that was much too good to use except for special occasions. They would talk about the harvest, twin calves born to a first-calf heifer, old times when they were young, and concerns about the tuberculosis found in a nearby county.

Youngsters, who tended to be bored with adult conversation, ate at a large folding metal table in the living room. Mother acquired it by redeeming stamps given by merchants eager to gain customer loyalty and was proud of it and the encyclopedia acquired in the same way. She was convinced that her son, who didn't care much for school, might use the books to become a more serious student.

  Mother tried and failed to convince her boys to attend church on Thanksgiving morning, but they were too busy with chores. The farm, livestock and ourselves had been gifted to us. She would say, although they were sometimes handfuls, God had made them good and strong in faith. Evidence was decidedly mixed about that.

Sins of commission and omission were not uncommon, but one and all were also forgiven with the asking.

Without asking parental permission, they rode gunnysacks down the lean-tos roof, found Dad's roll of snuff in the hay mow and stole it, and took the neighbor's Ford tractor equipped with overdrive for a joy ride.

The visitors did not overstay their welcome and left me unable to sleep the rest of the night. It's less than useful to get busy at 3:30 a.m. on a holiday morning, but too much needed to be done.

A table and chairs must be set up in the basement for guests, the carpeted floor must be vacuumed, and Kathy awakened so the bird would be put in the oven on time.

I tend to worry too much about such things. The truth is, what was important long ago and what remains today is getting together with people who visit much too infrequently.

The knowledge that what we cherish - the people, crops and our pursuit of dreams are indeed gifts that are priceless and given to us with love that lasts through the generations.