A touch of home

Thanksgiving is the only day I am ever homesick for the States. 

Well, not even the States. 

Reading, the town I grew up in and Boston where I lived as an adult. 

Not quite that either.

I am homesick for the emotional feeling of Thanksgiving. It was always my favorite holiday. The crisp air, the family, friends, the food and yes, the high school football games.

As a teenager it was the traditional Reading/Stoneham game. By then it was too cold for the black Bermuda shorts and red blazers worn for the earlier games leading up to the season finale.

Bundling was the way to go. 

Buy hot chocolate and shiver until it was time to go home sad or elated depending on the results to be greeted by my grandmother's roasting turkey and baking pies.

Years later, it was my daughter's high school Boston Latin against Boston English, a rivalry going back to the 1800s that was the Thanksgiving morning tradition. I stayed home where it was warm as she toddled off.

She played in the band. Her senior year I received a phone call as I was doing the cooking.  "MOM!!!!! EMERGENCY!!!"

My heart sank. Accident? Who was hurt? Anyone die?

No. 

The bus had left without several of the musicians, could I come, drive them to field. 

I did and later we had a discussion on what an emergency really was and that another social "emergency" could lead to a physical one inflicted by me.

Since 1990 I have lived on another continent where Thanksgiving isn't celebrated unless we create it. Last night we did just that enjoying the traditional meal at Marro among the wait staff that we see regularly and with friends, other expats. They do a wonderful recreation even if they are Swiss, French and Italian.

Outside the Bise chilled the evening. The full moon minus plus one all the good smells and sense of sharing carried the same emotions as all those other Thanksgivings long ago.

Back home, I checked. Reading and Latin won their games.

YES!!!!!