I'm heading to Indiana tomorrow morning for my first Thanksgiving back home since 2004, that tumultuous year my dad died and my mom battled breast cancer.  A year of bumpy rides and crash landings.  Of death and resurrection. A year for which, despite its ups and downs, I'm thankful. 

I've always had good memories of Thanksgiving.  I like feasting and football. Unlike the recurring trauma of Christmas, and all the inconvenient aspects of other holidays (stockpiling explosives, making lists of regrets and resolutions, finding parking, having a boyfriend), I've always liked the relative simplicity — simplicity may be the wrong word — clarity might be better — of Thanksgiving.  I like the idea of gathering, giving thanks, and more grub than you can eat in one sitting. What can I say?  I'm a food whore.

And my family has always been fairly well-behaved on Thanksgiving.  Of course it could have something to do with all that L-Tryptophan in the turkey coupled with overloading on carbs, and the attendant off-the-charts levels of nap-inducing serotonin and melatonin. Any holiday that includes ritual napping as an integral part is a holiday worth having, in my book.  Ones requiring explosives I tend to pass on.

Indiana recently went blue, too, so I'm definitely looking forward to welcoming them to civilization.  I hope to send smoke signals back by the weekend, but it will all depend on how the leftovers hold out, and how much napping I have to do.  Don't hold your breath, in other words.

Be back Monday, one way or another.