Several weeks before Thanksgiving many years ago, clouds threatened snow in Connecticut.
It was a Saturday and my submariner had been out to sea way too long. He wouldn’t be coming home for awhile.
Money was tight, as it so often is when you have small children and are paying a mortgage.
My entire family–aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, parents, siblings, in-laws–were in Southern California, 3000 sunny miles away.
Loneliness settled in for a melancholy chat.
So, when one of the boat wives invited us and another sea widow over for the afternoon, I loaded up the preschoolers and we drove to her house without a glance at the sky.
We settled into the cozy corner of the kitchen table and drank tea and talked.
The children ran off to play.
The hostess’s large family lived in Rhode Island and several were traveling through Connecticut to and from New York.
“I expect them to stop by this afternoon,” my friend laughed. “They’re always fun.”
They were.
All different groups of them at various times throughout the afternoon.
Totally fun as they filling the warm kitchen with stories, grand hand gestures, hugs, kisses and peeks into the dinner pot on the stove.
Her father-in-law had a touch of an accent in his voice and gallic forebearers turned their phrases.
We loved it.
I don’t know how many cups of tea we drank!
The kids survived.
Our husbands didn’t feel so far away–at least for that welcoming, embracing afternoon.
We went home to hot dogs and tater tots, bathtime and stories, and when I put the boys to bed, I looked through my photo albums, restless.
I missed my family so very much.
Suddenly, I wanted to be transported back to my grandparent’s house with my cousins stopping in and out.
I wanted to hug them all and kiss the new babies and listen to my grandmother’s shrill Italian babble.
It wasn’t about the food so much (we all mourn my grandmother’s lost recipe for cutlets), as spending a day with the people who had known me my entire life.
The house grew cold. I threw more logs in the woodstove, hoping it would keep us warm enough through the night since the furnace didn’t work.
It didn’t snow in California.
I sighed at the checkbook and made a list. It read something like this:
Reasons to Go Home for Thanksgiving
- To see the family
- Hugs and kisses
- For my kids to know their relatives
Photo by Marjory Collins. Farm Security Administration (LOC)
- Stories
- Games
- Tradition
- Warmth
- Love
- Pictures
With snow drifting outside my New England window, I looked at the checkbook again.
My husband would never begrudge me or the children our family.
The next day I booked tickets home.
I’ve never once regretted any year I’ve gone home to my Italian family for Thanksgiving.
I’ll be seeing them next week. I can hardly wait for the hugs and kisses, stories, games, traditions, love and pictures.
Maybe we’ll even say a couple words in Italian.
Two of my kids will be there to spend time with their relatives.
Why wouldn’t we go home for Thanksgiving?
(Okay, here’s one: no snow.)
How about you?
Tweetables
A sea widow wants to go home for Thanksgiving Click to Tweet
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A Navy wife makes a list: 9 reasons to go home for Thanksgiving. Click to Tweet
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