A Drexell & Honeybee's Thanksgiving

The November air in Brewton, Alabama, carries a certain weight—an earthy dampness from the recent rains mixed with the faint smoke of burning wood. It's a small town stitched together by railroad tracks and memories—the kind of place where the past lingers like a persistent ghost. I've found myself here on Thanksgiving, far from the familiar faces and worn-in comforts of home.

The streets are quiet this morning, leaves skittering across the pavement like restless thoughts. Families are tucked away inside their houses, ovens warm and tables set, the murmurs of generations mingling in cozy rooms. I pass by windows glowing with the soft light of lamps, glimpses of people embracing, laughing, and preparing for the feast. It's the fabric of intimacy from which I am distinctly separate.

I had received a few tentative invitations from kind souls met in passing—a preacher turned community spokesman and a pharmacist with a heart of gold—but they were heading out of town, drawn to larger family gatherings elsewhere. Their offers were warm but fleeting, like the pop of a spark that quickly fades in the nigh sky. 

So, I've decided to partake in the community Thanksgiving at Drexell and Honeybee’s “donation only” restaurant, where the motto is, “Feed the need.” Here anyone can eat a restaurant-style meal without worrying about the check; no one gets a check. Ever. If you’re able and can afford it, a donation box sits unobtrusively in the back of the place where you can pay as little or as much as you want for the meal. 

D&H was founded out of dreams and determination by Lisa Thomas-Macmillan and her husband, Freddie. But even before the restaurant they were involved in delivering hot meals to shut-ins. But Lisa felt like there was more she could do. She had always wanted to run a restaurant, but financially, that dream just wasn’t going to happen. That’s where Freddie stepped in. “He really is the one responsible for all this,” Lisa told me, and noted how it was Freddie’s retirement that allowed them to first set up shop.

The restaurant ate up about half their retirement savings, Lisa said. “And sometimes, only sometimes, do we have to dip back into the retirement accounts for the restaurant,” she said.

The restaurant sits in a single, unassuming brick building in downtown Brewton, Alabama. Meals are served from 11am until 2pm; however, I noticed a handwritten sign out front has amended those hours to 11am until 12:30pm “for the time being,” it says. Perhaps an indication of how expensive the place is to keep open.

Inside D&H looks like a thousand other small town restaurants and cafes. Tables for four dot the interior, and booths for six line the perimeter. It’s decorated simple but tasteful, a nod to minimalist form and function. There’s even a small book lending “library” at the rear of the place. 

Although the food is the is the main focus, Lisa says, “People bring their problems here … they want to heard … they know they’ll find a sympathetic ear.” And, if for even five or ten minutes, “we can offer them a respite from the hurt, the worry or pain they’re feeling.”  

The commitment of running D&H is extensive. The hours are long and the cost is high, says Lisa. “But this is our calling.” 

The line outside D&H began to form well before its promised 11am opening time. It was a mix of young and old, black and white. Conversation flowed as easily as the sweet tea offered with the meal inside. The doors opened almost 20 minutes late; there were a few huffs and puffs of complaint, but no one was walking away…

So here we all were, strangers bound together by circumstance more than choice. Inside, the scents are familiar. Roast turkey, ham, stuffing, cornbread, greens and gravy. They stir memories of other times, other places, where each dish carried a story told year after year until it became part of the family lore. Here, the foods are the same, but the stories are absent—or perhaps just unknown to me.

I take a seat at the end of a table beside an elderly man with weathered hands and a distant gaze. Across from me, a young mother balances a toddler on her knee, her eyes tired but kind. We exchange nods, polite smiles that bridge the gap without closing it. Each of us tucks into our own meal with silent efficiency, acknowledgment of shared good fortune.

As we eat, conversations ripple around the room—fragments of lives intersecting for this brief moment. There are tales of good harvests and lost jobs, of new grandchildren and departed friends. The voices rise and fall, a murmur of existence that underscores my own solitude.

As the meals conclude, some wander by, grab ahold of Lisa’s hand and thank her for meal. Lisa’s eyes are bright and encouraging as she wishes each one well and on their way.

 As people begin to drift away in pairs and small groups, I linger for a moment, watching as the restaurant empty of its final patrons. Finally, Lisa has cleared the last well-wisher and I make my approach. I introduce myself, hand her my card. See reads off “Hope and Generosity Tour,” with a question mark in there somewhere, “well that’s an awful nice sentiment,” she says. I ask if I can have a few more moments of her time, though visible weary from the day’s meal preparation, she agrees. 

“I just have a few questions,” I say. “How many people were you prepared to feed today?”

“That would be 120,” she says with the precision of a seasoned chef. 

“Well, if someone, say, walked through that door right now, and, oh, I don’t know, say they gave you $1,000. What would that do for you?”

 Lisa was at a loss for words. “It would do a lot for us,” she finally said; it would definitely pay for everyone’s meal today.

“Well… I’m not going to get up and walk back through the door, but here… I’d like you to have this $1,000 in cash. I’d like to pay for everyone’s Thanksgiving meal today,” I said. 

More silence, then astonished looks and finally, tears. “This has never happened to me before,” Lisa said. “Oh my, my… this is my most memorable Thanksgiving ever!” she said. 

I said my good-byes, and her eyes teared up again. “Oh… I just don’t want you to go,” she said. “This was SO kind of you. Please be safe in your travels.”

Stepping outside, the afternoon air is sharp, the sky clear and dotted with clouds. The town is quiet, a patchwork of shadows and faint glows, sunlight reflected off plate glass storefronts. I walk slowly, each footfall a reminder of the ground beneath me, the solidity of place even when one feels unmoored.

There's a bench near the railroad tracks where I sit and listen to the distant whistle of a train—a lonely sound that somehow brings comfort. I think about the nature of gratitude, how it extends beyond the confines of familiarity. Today, I shared a table with strangers, and while the intimacy of family was absent, there was a different kind of connection—a communal acknowledgment of presence, of being part of something larger, if only for a moment.

Perhaps that's enough for now. To be surrounded by humanity, even in isolation, is to be reminded that we are never truly alone. The world is huge and filled with souls navigating their own separations and unions. And in this small town of Brewton, on this day of giving thanks, I've found a place, however temporary, in the mosaic of shared existence.

As I rise to leave, a sense of quiet peace settles over me. The path ahead is uncertain, the miles stretching out into the unknown, but tonight I’ll carry with me the simple gifts of kindness and understanding—a harvest of the heart to sustain me for another day.