Several weeks before Thanksgiving many years ago, the 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, Pauline, invited us and another sea widow, Ann, over for the afternoon, I loaded up the preschoolers and we drove to her house in Mystic without a glance at the sky.
Ann and I settled into the cozy corner of Pauline’s kitchen table and drank tea and talked.
The children ran off to play.
Pauline’s husband’s large French-Canadian family lived in Rhode Island and several of them were on the road that day traveling through Connecticut on their way to and from New York. “I expect them to stop by this afternoon,” she 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.
Ann and I 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 Italian family so very much.
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.
I didn’t care 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.
I was the only one who had left California.
The New England saltbox 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:
There’s more of them now!
Reasons to Go Home for Thanksgiving
- To see the family
- Hugs and kisses
- For my kids to know their relatives
- 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 lonely sea widow wants to go home for Thanksgiving Click to Tweet
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