Back in the day, Thanksgiving at the "Ranch" was not much different from most Thanksgivings up here.

Persimmon and orange were the dominant colors.

Though the valley floor looked like a bowl of Trix Cereal (dating myself), a good Thanksgiving was one where the grass in the hills was already green. That meant we'd had ample rainfall and no one was talking drought.

To St. Helena boys, Thanksgiving was the most special day of the year. Not Christmas. No one slept Thanksgiving week. We were too excited. Thursday was the annual Red and White game over on Carpy field.

Played in the morning, it was an occasion for the whole town to turn out and watch Mr. Carpy's boys in action.

The field was prepared with crisp white chalk, just like for the High School games. We could taste it, and each of us secretly rubbed some of the sacred stuff on our pants, just to take that smell home.

We were a motley looking crew. But each kid walked a little taller that day. No one wore matching “uniforms.” Numbers on jerseys were almost unheard of. “Real men” wore sweatshirts over their cardboard shoulder pads.

Our local high school coach, (Dolph Caserino or George Davis), reffed, with the aid of a high school hero like Blanchfield, Raymond or Berringer.

Mr. Raymond was up in the booth calling out the play by play. How he knew our names with no numbers on is one of life's minor mysteries. At age 12 hearing your name echo over that speaker, was as exciting as life gets.

The uniforms rarely fit. The helmets were too big, the shoulder pads awkward, and the pants always sagged.

The metal cleats were pretty cool, though. You could buy a new pair at Mr. Fagg's Sports shop. Or, you could try to find a used pair that almost fit, in one of Mr. Carpy's green duffle bags. If you didn't like the leather helmets from Mr. Carpy's bag, you could get a new plastic one down at Mr. Fagg's too.

We were divided into two teams. Half of us covered our shoulder pads with torn red sweatshirts and half with white. No two sweatshirts matched.

There were "A", "B", and "C" squads-from eighth grade down to third. Each played 5 minutes of each 15 minute quarters. We called our own plays.

The adults were bundled up in the stands or walking the sidelines drinking Bloody Maries. They cheered us on, but unlike today’s helicopter parents, they wouldn’t dare bark instructions at us.

When the game was over families retreated back to their fire places to feast on Turkey and watch the annual Green Bay/Detroit NFL game on TV.

We loved watching Lombardi's boys take on the Monsters from Motor City. Usually, it was snowing. Guys were muddy, freezing, breathing white mist. No one complained. No one hot dogged.

The message was clear. Tough men played tough games. They labored in silence--uncomplaining--just like the farmers labored in silence who ran the cattle, grew the prunes or walnuts, and, yes--some grapes.

Football was a game made for an Ag community. Mr. Carpy was doing his part to instill discipline, teach sacrifice, the virtues of hard work, and the quiet satisfaction which comes from doing a job right--though toiling in anonymity.

Don’t get me wrong. The Lazy J was more petting zoo than real ranch. Sure, we had cattle, horses, a milk cow named "Babe", chickens, lambs-you name it. Jim Pop named them all. 

We did take the calves to the auction, milk the cow, eat eggs from the hens, and literally chop the heads off roosters with our trusty axe. Picking chickens was not much fun--but probably more fun than having one's neck placed between two nails on an old log, while they played Charles Darney to our Robespierre.

But we weren’t’ real ranchers. Ranching was once the real deal in the Valley. There was nothing romantic about it. Fathers made sons work--hard. Carpy gang was a welcome respite from all that.

Sure it was fun, but Mr. Carpy taught us basic skills. We scrimmaged against each other during the week, and had one game--Thanksgiving morning . No leagues. No fancy uniforms.

It was enough. It was all we knew. Hey, it was more than anyone else had.

We had many blessings back then. But to a kid, nothing was more blessed than the Red and White game, Thanksgiving morn.