Thanksgiving Week at the Homestead
IMAGE: The author in the front yard, dressed in his proverbial sailor suit, 1959.
It took me two days to get ready to leave town, but I'm finally here, in the house where I grew up, in a town on the eastern outskirts of Cincinnati.
The driving was a little rough, with rain or drizzle for half the trip, and thick fog in the mountains of western Maryland and northeastern West Virginia. But tonight I'm here alone at the house, and my parents are at a facility about ten miles from here. I visited them on my way here. I'll spend Thanksgiving dinner with them in their room. This was actually preferable to the dining room, which in the skilled nursing wing has a few people with a few screws loose among them, who take to crying out on a regular basis. Personally, I'd rather sneak them out of the place and go to IHOP, but then there's the insurance risk.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bottle of wine to polish off before lights out.