HOME

Thanksgiving falls in two days and I get to family (the verb) twice this year. I am old enough to remember when the word family applied only to blood relatives and marriage mates. Over a lifetime my sense of family has expanded from the traditional circle to include a “Backdoor” clan, birds of a feather. They enjoy the recognition and benefits without a pedigree. Family is qualified by ‘this, and’ rather than ‘either, or’. I live in the light of family status as a spectrum rather than a data point. Not that I love one more and the other less as love is not a commodity. In my book, if it requires a score card and pay backs it isn’t love, it’s an arrangement. So if you spread love wide and deep there is no need to save some for another day. The source won’t dry up, there is always plenty to give away and; it is well to remember, what goes around comes back around. That’s how family works. 

My Three Rivers, Michigan family is having traditional turkey and dressing on Thursday; I’ll be there. My niche there is pretty well defined. When my Backdoor brother succumbed to cancer in 1996 I acquired a surrogate something -or-other role that has endured. My surrogate little sister and I are going shopping tomorrow on the night before. She is a bit of a scamp which means we will probably stretch a few boundaries. Then I’m sure, we will all be competing for counter space Thursday morning. I make a mean cranberry relish with more pecans and orange zest than the average turkey & dressing freak would attempt. But when you turn me loose in the kitchen this time of year, that’s what you get. 

Come Saturday, back home in Ravenna, Michigan the Watson’s will close ranks for their holiday get-together. Duane is my Backdoor brother there. When I retired in 2001 I had no place to call home and he resolved that dilemma in short order. Duane announced that I would live with them on their 40 acres of woods and blueberries. Lori, Duane’s wife is my Backdoor sister, she collects my mail and keeps track of where I've gone and what I leave behind. Their 3 kids, my former students, they descend on the homestead for holidays with marriage mates and 8 new descendants, all age 6 and under. It is a maelstrom of chaos and affection when they all converge. I am expected to take my turn reading to and playing with the little units. I don’t know how long or how well I could sustain that engagement but certainly, it is always entertaining and comforting to know that my station with the kids is equal to that of the dogs. 

Come Sunday I will point my Ford F-150 south and begin the trek to Missouri. I used to make it in a single day but that was when I drove at night. Now, in the season of short days I find shelter for the night somewhere in between. It allows for some creative routing and that opens up a new window for discovery. Every new stretch of unexplored highway offers a variety of photo opportunities. On the way up, in the back waters of western Illinois I discovered a cleanly harvested, rolling network of corn and bean fields and two old barns that still had some function. Otherwise they would have been demolished and retasked  as productive farmland. The photo op was irresistible. Time lost stopping, sometimes going back for photos is well worth a late arrival. 

Once back in Missouri I have plenty of family, by both blood and the Backdoor to keep me in the loop and on the busy.  I used to push back against where I’m from but lately it has become a pointless hangup. I realize that people are simply conditioned to starting conversations with that inquiry. They don’t attribute much meaning to origins and the implications it begs. Since I got out of the military I have not really wanted to be from anywhere. That fact that I am here or there at the time is enough identity for me. So, for the sake of clarity and compliance I concede that I am from Michigan. Duane told me so last night. He said that I live with my brother and sister, no matter where I go or how long I stay away between the going out and coming home. I find that comforting, a little weight off my conscience that few understand or care about and I won’t miss its passing.