Once again, the gold, scarlet and orange leaves flutter to the ground leaving the trees stark and bare against the blue sky. The dates on the calendar fly as quickly as the hour changes on a digital clock.

Let me start this year’s Thanksgiving column by admitting that our family won’t be cooking a traditional meal come Nov. 25. The household has thinned over the years, and my wife and I have soured over the commitment to cook for eight hours only to eat together for 30 minutes.

I was no stranger to terror when I was a child. I remember shivering in my bed watching the curtains billow into the room under the breath of the night wind.

Many years ago, I traveled to Chicago. I had been living in a city where the traffic was routed away from the residential area and the noise level was the occasional dull roar of passing cars and the laughter of children playing along the streets.

As a young woman, my mother, Ruth Elbert, put together three large photo albums of her family and her ancestors before marrying my dad.

Recently, the White Mountains in Arizona were in a severe drought. The grass had long since turned brown, and the trees were losing their drooping leaves, even though they were watered by the garden hose almost daily.

The sultry August day my grandfather passed away, I walked up the path under the willow trees. I noticed the group gathered around my grandfather’s lawn chair. I knew he was there. Tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t join the group.

Pain: What a terrible curse. Men under the threat of pain have revealed national secrets and abandoned family, country and religion. The cupboards of many Americans are filled with painkillers, and pharmacies do a booming pain-relieving business.

Recently, I have been recording family histories, and I found three stories I heard as a child that I thought my readers would like. Looking back to the past, there are stories that reveal the character and desires of our ancestors and shed light our own traditions and desires.