“Come ye thankful people come.” It’s a hymn that’s been sung often of late in these parts. “Raise the song of Harvest Home. All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.”

So what am I thankful for? I’m thankful for plenty of rain to fill the well and water the oaks. I’m thankful for a mild winter, so far. I’m thankful for a family that is strong around me. For a faith that sustains me. Despite bumps in the road, I really have been deeply blessed.

Lately, I’ve been spending lots of time counting my blessings around a supper table. I spent Wednesday at Brother Bill’s eating a fine steak. Thursday was the big day at Mama and Pop’s where we ate turkey and dressing, cheese and broccoli casserole, and cousin Abby’s heart-attack creamed corn (heavy whipping cream AND a stick of butter). It was delicious.

On Friday we traveled to Cottonwood, Ala., which is about seven miles north of Florida. My friend Johnny’s folks invited us there to share in a fine country feast of fresh-picked greens, fried chicken, sweet potatoes and corn bread (Two kinds — oven-baked and pan-fried, like a hushpuppy funnel cake).

In the middle of all the eating, we swapped “remember when …” stories for the most part, but occasionally I’d hear an economic indicator mixed in. One nephew had lost his job. On the other side, one just found a job with benefits. Several folks had hours cut back. Several who were teachers had found themselves taking furloughs. All of us talked about people we knew who were out of work. The stories worked their way around to the elders of our clans recalling the Great Depression and how hard it had been just to survive.

But the subject always came back to the worries of today. In fact, economics seemed to be the main topic of conversation from Carrollton to Cottonwood, and all points in between.

Late Saturday afternoon, on the trip home, we stopped at a place on the roadside. It was called the Dippy Hippy. Or the Hippy Dippy. I can’t recall which. It was an ice-cream palace with a psychedelic sign painted in day-glow colors. We had to stop. Curiosity demanded it.

Johnny and I walked in and looked around. Neat as a pin. Clean and bright. Empty as a tomb. A man and a woman stood at attention behind the counter like we were their first customers of the day. We pondered the menu on the wall. It was a little uncomfortable with the owners beaming at us, but eventually I was able to choose a chili-cheese-kraut dog and a Coke. (When exactly does the statute of limitations on Thanksgiving gluttony run out?)

While we waited on our order to be filled, we studied the walls of the establishment, where roadside philosophers had been encouraged to leave hand-scrawled messages. There were viewpoints from people of all walks of life. Beefs and gripes. Cartoons and jokes. Words written in memory of lost loved ones. I could have read them all day.

Finally, the owner brought our orders into the empty dining room and hovered while we ate, anxious to see if we were enjoying our meal. Johnny invited him to sit with us and we asked him about his business there. He had been open for about a year and tried all kinds of marketing schemes to make people stop at his restaurant. But the hard cold fact was that the day of the roadside attraction had come to an end. Now, when families go on a road trip, they turn the DVD players on, lull the kids into a hypnotic sleep, and drive as fast as they can to their destination. The days of reptile farms and gator ranches were no more.

The owner told us that the reason he’d opened the restaurant was because he got laid off at his old job. He told us how he put everything he had into this ice cream parlor. How after a year he was still without steady customers — and was starting to run a little close to the edge.

As he talked about his hard times, about his deserted ice-cream palace, I could see in his face that he hadn’t given up. We talked back and forth about the possibilities of Internet marketing. I suggested an outdoor playground where kids could stretch their legs mid trip from Atlanta to Auburn. He considered all these things.

Finally we finished our food and put our paper plates into the almost-empty trashcan. We said goodbye and headed for the door, anxious to get back to Carrollton before dark. The man and his wife followed us out, like they were long-time friends saying goodbye before a journey. We waved to them as we pulled out of their empty parking lot.

On the way home, we considered the future of the Hippy Dippy, and of other small businesses that have sprung up out of necessity during this recession. I thought about the man, carefully dipping my ice cream like he was born to do the work. I thought about how proud he was of his clean restaurant. Despite the hardship he’d lived through, he was full of faith for the future. I found myself feeling thankful for that, and hoped that the rest of us would follow suit and not give up.

(Gentry is a Carroll County resident. Her column appears Thursdays in the Times-Georgian.)