To quote our nation’s most revered nightrider (pun intended): “The turkeys are coming!”
Well, no, those may not have been Paul’s words verbatim. But these are the words that welcomed me into Trader Joe’s last week. A snippet of a hallelujah chorus slipped out of my mouth before I could catch myself, bringing some strange glances from fellow shoppers. Passersby probably questioned why slimy saran-wrapped birds were so enthralling to me — but frankly, I could care less about the birds themselves. I don’t even eat the turkey on Turkey Day.
When Trader Joe — whom I assume is a very real and very holy figure — called out to me with his sign, I didn’t think of the freezer truck on Interstate 95 with some chilly Butterballs in the back. To me, turkeys mean Thanksgiving — and Thanksgiving means that this girl is homeward bound. When I read of the turkeys’ arrival, instead of imagining the upcoming Thanksgiving meal, I thought of the scene awaiting me when I walk in the door.
The dog, obviously, will alert everyone to my arrival and then, wagging and panting fiercely, he will accompany me inside to the sound of my mother’s gleeful, drawn-out mama howl: “There’s my Katie girl!”
It’s one of the best feelings in the world to be someone’s “Katie girl,” especially if that someone is my mom. Then comes the rhetorically incredulous, overly enthusiastic, “Is that Kate?” as my dad rises, closes his book and tells me it’s great to have me home. The reaction never gets old.
Until late, I had never really considered the concept of a “homecoming” apart from the football game kind. In its literal sense, a homecoming is just a celebration for, well, coming home.
Long past the days of hopping off of a school bus or coming in the back door after outdoor adventures, my homecomings are now few and far between — and God, do I miss them.
Here at school, I get a “hey” from my roommates when I trudge in at night, and I appreciate the polite acknowledgement. But the unconditional warmth in a parent’s welcome now only happens a few times a year.
As I age, I am beginning to better recognize the evolution of parent-child relationships. First, we depend on our parents; then we resent, ignore or act bothered by them; and then, one day, we wake up and appreciate them. Thankfully, I’ve entered the last phase — and I’m happy to be here.
Now that I have come to my senses, I can recognize that my family is the source of my happiness at home. I didn’t do this three years ago, either because I was ignorant or because I didn’t want to. But what they say is true: you don’t know how good you have it until it’s gone.
At Thanksgiving this year, I won’t have to concoct something at the last minute when I’m asked what I’m thankful for. My extended separation from home has left me with an obvious choice. So thank you, Mom and Dad, for the glorious and lovely homecomings. And thank you, Trader Joe, for the healthy reminder the turkeys are indeed coming.
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