Love notes were taped to the mirror in the bathroom. They were taped to the whiteboard calendar in the dining room. They were taped to a cold piece of stone under a lone tree. Underneath the bed, several more sat in a dusty box.

Outside, the fog hung low. It rolled up from the rivers and hugged the empty corn fields and caressed the scarlet and orange trees. Although it was still dark in the early morning hours, the air had already reached its high for the day.

Greg splashed water on his face and glanced at himself in the mirror as he reached for the towel. As soon as he had woken up that morning, he became tied to his schedule. The thanksgiving dinner would take about five hours to prepare, and his kids would be arriving with their own children around 2p.m. He knew he was blessed to have two of the three live within an hour of his home, but he secretly enjoyed that Macy and Jacob made the three-hour road trip to spend the night in his house with their wild three-year-old. It made life good.

Greg had already mapped out the entire day to a finely tuned schedule with room for error or things going wrong like any good engineer. Putting on his glasses, Greg chuckled to himself as he moved down the stairs with his list of times. In engineering, there was always at least one thing that went wrong. Cooking, he knew, was hardly different.

The kitchen was clean and ready as if it knew the excitement of the day. As Greg's feet thudded on the hardwood floor, the cats came running for breakfast. He carefully refilled a bowl with water and headed to the pantry, two cats following closely at his heels.

With the cats, Freddie and Flute, fed, Greg marked the first task off his list.

     6:15 Feed Cats

     6:20 Set the oven to 425˚F, Breakfast

     6:40 Pie

Deviating from the to-do list, Greg grabbed the speaker from the living room and flicked it on. The top lit up in a ring as he connected it to his cell phone and 1940s big band music filled the room. Thank God for good music and Glenn Miller, he thought.

Breakfast went by in a blur as he mentally prepared for the pie. The counter held three very old and only slightly falling apart recipe books. The kitchen was covered in neutral and earthy colors, but these three books clashed with the kitchen with their bright pinks, navies, and yellows. He selected the pink one and flipped to the right page with a smile. Jenny had always been a little bit of a spontaneous baker. When he had finally convinced Jenny to let him write down her many recipes, he had spent the next year carefully recording each of her favorite foods as she made them. For the ingredients she added "by feel" he did the best he could.

Greg had digitized the recipes for his kids and printed his own copies to add to a new cookbook that he alphabetized and sorted by topic. The recipes were extremely exact, but the titles he had taken some liberty with. Sorted under "pumpkin pie," the title read, "Grandma Jenny's Famous Thanksgiving Pie."

Jenny had huffed about the title for a long while, but finally she relented to the fun and signed her name at the bottom of the document with several hearts and smiley faces in typical Jenny fashion. She was nothing if not fun. It was a personality trait that had seemed to consume her whole being.

Greg slid the chilled and already-waiting pie crust from the fridge into the oven and got to work on the filling. The recipe, as written by Greg, read, "1tsp Cinnamon, overflowing until it looks like the recipe should just have called for 2tsp."

Greg shook his head as he whisked the spices with the condensed milk and canned pumpkin, laughing at his own joke. Jenny had been adamant there was only one teaspoon of cinnamon with a "small addition," but when he had snatched the heaping pile out of her hands to measure, she had to admit the recipe needed to be modified. The memory was worth smiling over.

     6:20 Set the oven to 425˚F, Breakfast

     6:40 Pie

     Set out Butter

     7:00 Stuff Turkey

     7:40 Roast Turkey

The day was moving quickly. The turkey was Greg's forte. Jenny had always been the "baker and masher" as she called herself, worrying only about pies, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin bread. The turkey and the stuffing had always been his, along with the perfect gravy. The speaker sounded the last notes of Take the A Train and switched moods as Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing sounded in the room. Greg smiled at the turn and let his mind drift for a moment away from the herbs on the kitchen counter.

As if in a different time, Greg extended his arms and started to move his feet around the room, though old age slowed him down. The invisible woman spun around him in an old-time swing, turning away and turning back again with the movements of the beat. Greg hummed along and caught her deftly as her low heels clicked on the floor.

With the beeping of the timer, the beautiful woman disappeared, and Greg's humming came to an end. He smiled sadly at the pink cookbook and gave it a pat with his left hand.

"Soon," he whispered.

By 2 o'clock, the turkey was resting on the kitchen counter. In the center of the kitchen, a table had been pulled out and extended to seat nine people with one old highchair to make ten. At each seat, China dishes were set out with a sticky note in the center of each dish. Though some saved their finest dishes in a cabinet gathering dust, Greg and Jenny had always been fans of using the dishes at every holiday meal.

     12:30ish Turkey Done/Rest

     12:30 Make Gravy

     1:30 Set Table

     1:45 Write Notes

     2:00 Give Thanks!

Greg, now satisfied, moved to the living room with fresh coffee and a newspaper and waited for his people. It wasn't long at all before there was the sound of an old-fashioned doorbell ringing through the house.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" Olivia half sang-half shouted into the house as she entered. She was truly her mother's daughter.

"Well, how do you do, Peaches?" Greg asked as he scooped the seven-year-old into his arms and held the door wide for the others that didn't feel the need to run from the car into the house.

Lucy, Greg's oldest, was holding her baby in one arm with her other hand entwined with the 5-year-old Sampson. Behind her came her husband, Zach, with a box of their usual side dish of homemade applesauce. He was a good one, Greg thought, from down in Kentucky. Always a helper and thinking first of his family. The career in accounting was secondary.

"Hello, Grandpa Greg!" Lucy hollered as she stepped in, letting go of the little Sampson's hand so that the young gentleman could wrap his arms around Greg's leg, soundless. Greg ruffled Sampson's hair.

Greg followed Zach inside, one arm holding Olivia and the other hand guiding Sampson. He was barely back into the kitchen when he found himself quite blind.

"Grandpa!" Olivia laughed, "I'm wearing your glasses!"

"Peaches, you're lookin' like a mad scientist," Zach agreed.

Ages ago, Greg knew someone taking his glasses would not have been an experience to laugh at. It was a lengthy lesson in his 20's to let life be a little more fun. As Jenny always spoke in his language, saying, "lives need artists like steel beams need engineers."

The chatter continued and continued. Greg did his best to take it all in slowly.

He found himself sitting on the living room recliner with the not-so-little-anymore baby Joshua propped up on his lap. Olivia proudly showed off her new tricks of somersaulting and twirling her new pink skirt by doing so all over the room. Sampson had found the basket of toys and was running experiments on the toy cars to see which one could go the farthest. All the while, Lucy and Zach slipped in information about home, work, friends, and more.

A brisk knock at the door got Greg back up on his feet, and Joshua happily went with him. David, Greg's middle child, took after Greg in appearance. David still had Jenny's brown eyes.

David stepped in, face all business.

"Dad, Joshie," he acknowledged the youngest with a kiss on the cheek. "Dad, have you checked your texts from Macy in the family group chat?"

"You know I hardly check that old thing," Greg joked, but still his heart felt a pang of worry.

"There's bad traffic on I-75 that they had to get through. They'll probably be here in..." David trailed off as he checked his watch. "Ten more minutes, likely."

Greg huffed out a happy sigh and nodded.

"That construction never ends, does it?"

Only ten more minutes until the house would be almost perfect. Family was, after all, the best part about his home.

David was an engineer both by profession and by personality. Instead of bringing a side dish, he preferred to bring an electric carving knife and work on the turkey. It was more than enough for the family. Greg was content to cook as much as possible.

When Macy and Jacob arrived, their daughter had on a bright pink coat, a deep green skirt, and purple boots. No doubt, the wild three-year-old had picked it out herself. It made Greg smile.

Macy triumphantly entered the house behind Jacob and their daughter with a neon paper in her hand.

"I have the sticky note!" she proclaimed. Her 35 years of age held nothing on her youth when she gave a wicked grin. She entered the dining room and placed the note on the plate at the head of the table. "Ta-Da!"

Lucy and Zach cheered, and it was enough that even their oldest started clapping along too.

It had only been a few years previous that the tradition was for someone else. Greg had always had a pre-written love note like the rest of them. The triumph made him smile, and the smile faded.

Greg looked around at his children and grandchildren. It was like one of Jenny's puzzles that became more beautiful with each piece. The full picture was here.

"Alright, folks!" Greg announced. "It's dinner time."

Olivia circled the table, announcing to the group who was sitting where.

"This one's me! And this one's David! And this one's Zach! And this one is YOU Grandpa!"

Greg took his seat in turn.

"Why thank you Miss Peaches."

He looked down at his bright orange sticky note.

It read, "Dad, I love you more every day :)" Yes, this one would go nicely with the others on the bathroom mirror. The wise parents read theirs to their youngest ones then tucked the notes away in purses before the notes got covered in food and spit.

Soon they were sitting and eating and laughing and the youngest were making a mess. Greg, looking at the gravy now on the table admitted to himself that he was contributing to the mess too. Through Greg enjoyed the dinner, his favorite part was still to come.

While the spouses and David cleaned the table, Macy and Lucy started to pull out ingredients from the cabinets. Greg guessed not many baked after thanksgiving dinner! He grabbed the pink cookbook and easily opened it to a worn page. The cookbook had not had the recipe written down long, and most in the family had it memorized, but it was creased and slightly torn.

At the top it read, "The best pumpkin bread in the whole wide world." As proud as Greg was to name several of the dishes archived in the books, this one could be attributed to none other than Lucy herself.

Greg called over Olivia and her five-year-old brother Sampson. Their age helped them do most of the baking. Sampson crawled into Greg lap at the table, and Olivia eyed the recipe book.

Greg gave what he called the engineering smile. That look when something brilliant was about to happen. "Olivia, Sampson, we are on a mission to make the best pumpkin bread ever made in this whole world."

"Two cups flour," Olivia read aloud. Lucy passed her children the measuring cups and two spoons. Sampson started to dump flour into his cup carefully.

Olivia was far less careful, and flour started to coat the table perhaps even more than fill the cup.

The flour wasn't being sifted. In Sampson's clumsy but careful hands, the flour became slightly pressed in the cup. How crazy it could've driven Greg years and years ago. He had gone to the lengths of even buying Jenny a kitchen scale.

"Just do it by the gram!" Greg had pleaded with her, but she would have none of it.

"My dear," she would say, "baking is no fun if you take all the whimsy out of it." And so Sampson patted his flour, and Olivia smeared it on the table, and Greg smiled. It was a good rule for living.

When it came time to cream the sugar and the butter, Greg turned to Sampson.

"Would you like to turn the stand mixer on?"

Sampson eyed the sliver machine wearily. He shook his head.

"I want to!" proclaimed Oliva to the crowd. Her mother grinned.

"Go right ahead."

Soon, the smells of pumpkin and chocolate were spilling out of the oven. Taking a half stack of sticky notes, David passed around a paper to each person. Everyone grabbed crayons and markers. Greg grabbed a simple black sharpie.

He carefully wrote, "My heart belongs only to you, forever and always. –Greg"

As Olivia showed off the purple flower she drew, the warm pumpkin bread was carefully wrapped in small sections with foil and placed in a wooden basket.

"Ready to go?" Lucy asked her daughter.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Oliva sang.

Even baby Joshua, who wasn't old enough to write on sticky notes cooed in agreement. It was settled. Greg and David would fit in the back of Zach and Lucy's van. Macy and Jacob would drive separately with the basket.

Greg grabbed a small plastic bag and tape for his coat pocket while the little ones received help with their winter coats. He picked up his to-do list. It was almost finished, but for one thing. He carefully crossed off the last line at, checking his watch, 4:56 p.m.

Time TBD: Add chocolate chips to pumpkin bread

Outside, the sun had set, and the bight colors in the sky were slowly being covered by thick clouds. It was cold, but not too cold for a late November evening.

The car ride was a short one, only a handful of minutes, but it was lively with chatter. With Lucy and Olivia in the car, how could it not be? Zach turned the car onto a narrow, winding drive. Olivia pressed her face to the window, intently watching. Macy and Jacob pulled in behind as the cars all parked under the darkening sky.

"We're here!"

"Yes, we are!" David smiled at Olivia, and she unbuckled herself from her car seat.

Greg and Olivia led the way down the path past the different colored stones until they found the right one.

On the right, the stone held Greg's name. On the left, it read "Jenny Ann, 1943-2015."

There were no flowers or flags, but in the center, a small bag of sticky notes sat, immobilized by a piece of tape.

Greg picked up the bag for his pocket as Jacob and Macy started to pass out little squares of chocolate-chip pumpkin bread.

"Psst, Grandpa," Olivia whispered into Greg's ear. "Can I collect the stickies?"

"Of course, Peaches."

Handing her the bag, Greg slipped his note in first and opened up his piece of pumpkin bread. Chocolate chips and pumpkin had always seemed like an unlikely pair, but it wasn't long into their marriage at all that Jenny had convinced him otherwise. As much as Greg tried to follow the conversations, he was lost in thought.

That evening, after his local kid had left and Macy and Jacob had tucked their little one into a mound of blankets and quilts, Greg pulled out a shoe box from under his bed and gently set the year-old notes down inside.

There were a few good rules for living, Greg had realized in his many years. Bake your pumpkin bread with chocolate chips. You can measure flour however you please. Always have a sticky note taped to a place your loved ones can find it.

There were loved notes taped to the mirror in the bathroom. A new one had been put up with the rest on the whiteboard calendar in the dinging room. On a cold piece of stone under a lone tree, several more were taped in a plastic bag.

Snow had begun to fall outside, and the earth was coated in powdery white. It made Greg smile.