Heartscape

I have no artistic talent. When I was a child, everything I attempted to draw had the same backdrop: gently rolling hills, a round yellow ball of sun with yellow lines spoking out from it, and one cloud. The central image would vary. It was usually a tree with some flowers at the base, although sometimes it would be a princess. When I was feeling especially creative, I would draw a castle with a flag flying from each of the four turrets. But always, the rolling hills were the backdrop against which all else was drawn. Always.

Yesterday, I headed home to northwestern Illinois for what will probably be the last Thanksgiving at the home of my youth. My parents have bought a house in the UP (Upper Peninsula of Michigan) so they can be closer to their cabin, and although they may buy a small home in town so they can stay closer to friends and family, their plan is to sell the house they built and have lived in for thirty-five years. With the exception of four Thanksgivings (one while I was finishing up my master’s thesis, one when I was on pregnancy bedrest and could barely even travel to my own living room , one a couple years later when we went to Chicago to try the holiday with my husband’s family, and one when my sister-in-law was pregnant and two of my children had a virus that can be dangerous for pregnant women to encounter), I have spent Thanksgiving Day with my family of origin. We always do Easter with my in-laws, and we always do Thanksgiving with my family.

I really needed this Thanksgiving. My children will no longer live with me by this time next year. My older son is looking to move into an apartment with some friends, my daughter will be away at college and will come to us for the holiday as a visitor, and my other son will be doing whatever the government requires of its military personnel. Not only would yesterday be the last Thanksgiving in the home I grew up, it would be the last Thanksgiving with the family I've raised while they are still part of my household. My heart was aching, even while it was full.

The foods at my mom's Thanksgiving table are familiar, of course, and even though my siblings and their families bring contributions to the banquet, we always have scalloped corn, green bean casserole, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Mom’s stuffing, and apple and pumpkin pies. Always. And there is always a walk in the afternoon to help grown-ups walk off the meal-induced lethargy and to help children and dogs work off some of the energy that has accumulated while being inside and attempting to behave. Always.

And that “always” is what I've valued most about Thanksgiving. Every year, whether I've traveled from far enough away that I needed to pack and stay for several days or from a short enough distance that it is just a day trip, I've gone home for the day. Although I always think of the home I've made with my husband and children as my home, my parents’ home has deeper roots in my heart , and, with a small handful of exceptions, the fourth Thursday in November always pulls me back home. Home is stability. It is comfort. It is constancy. It is the backdrop of my heart and life.

As we got off the fast-paced highways and traveled along Illinois Route 75, I glanced at the landscape around me as I always do. I saw the rolling hills—the same ones that were the backdrop of my childhood drawings—and I knew I was home. And my heart was glad.