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My Grandma was. In Southern Tier New York State (Granpa's bak lot fence WAS the Pennsylvania line), where the Erie & Lackawanna railroad brought goods from the Atlantic Shore, every week (I think usually very early on Friday morning, the train brought well-iced pint or bigger cartons of fresh oysters from its terminal depot of Hoboken, New Jersey (there's a song about that, H-O-B-O-K-EE-ENN, EE-ENN!).

She would drive down about 15 miles to Wellsville (that is on the banks of the Genessee north-flowing river) and get her oysters at the local grocery there for soup. Local folks would go to the restaurants at the Fassett Hotel for their weekly bathes od delicious oyster soup, rather than make it, if they could afford. Maybe the Brunswick had it, too, but I'm not too sure about that.

But I think that on Thanksgiving week, the Erie probsably brought it earlier. Nevertheless Me and Mom and Dad (and later on after 1945) my new sister always went to the farm for Thanksgiving, and Olean to Mom's folks for Christmas.

For Thanksgiving, Grandma never made turkey, actually they were not popular until after they were kept off the ground in cages that kept their feet from infecting them. So my Uncle Virgil greatly preferred the chickens he raised by name, and brought over. And that's the poultry that Granma made stuffing for with the oysters we all loved so much, with the dried bread crumbs she had from her wood-stove baking as well.

That's my wartime story, hope it made you slaver for the dressing! All you 20th Century Southtiersmen!