The day before Thanksgiving, my friends spotted a flock of 30 turkeys crossing the lawn on their wooded land north of Nashville. None of them ended up on the dinner table, it was nice to spend the holiday in a place where its strongest symbol runs rampant.
For the second time in my life, I didn't sit at my parents' table for Thanksgiving; the only other came when I refused to go with them to Connecticut because I wouldn't lie to Grandma and my mother's family about my father being out of work.
This year's absence also concerned work, but my deadline for Kansas-Missouri on Wednesday and two shifts at the store over the weekend. With my sister's recent departure for the Pacific Northwest, I just didn't feel up for the drive, much less watching lopsided Thankgiving Day football. After my Father's report on their guests for the weekend, staying in Nashville proved prescient.
So the Coats family, who took me in for Easter twice since I migrated south, offered for Thanksgiving as well. Since I began renting their one-bedroom apartment in Inglewood three weeks ago, I have become family by proxy.
When I rumbled up the steep driveway, I recalled the Continental Divide and its strain on 4-cylinder engines. The new tired accepted the challenge of the gravel drive which wound to the small cluster of houses that overlooked the mountain valleys leading away from Nashville.
Soon the house was full, including some people to which I had stronger ties than I knew. Tim's aunt and uncle lived in my apartment building for many years, as had their son. He had been born in this house, the mudroom out back had been built as a tiny nursery (now it stores bikes, brewing equipment and the catbox).
When I rumbled up the steep driveway, I recalled the Continental Divide and its strain on 4-cylinder engines. The new tired accepted the challenge of the gravel drive which wound to the small cluster of houses that overlooked the mountain valleys leading away from Nashville.
Soon the house was full, including some people to which I had stronger ties than I knew. Tim's aunt and uncle lived in my apartment building for many years, as had their son. He had been born in this house, the mudroom out back had been built as a tiny nursery (now it stores bikes, brewing equipment and the catbox).
The food was splendid, and my streak for making cranberry sauce ran to six years, although the 2009 version featured a pint of blueberries as a frill. Following an afternoon of wine, it felt like it took gallons of coffee to return myself to driving condition. When I rolled back down to the rural road, the coffee worked long enough to guide me home and directly to bed, the effects of a Thanksgiving meal had become too large to surmount.
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