I’m headed home — just not sure when I’ll get there. Mudslides in the Pacific Northwest have complicated travel today, on all days.
Yet Thanksgiving has softened the usual travel grumbling when schedules are disturbed, and nerves are frayed.
Everyone I’ve met today, from my sweet hosts (at the 4.30 a.m. wake-up call) to all the Amtrak staff encountered along the way, has been upbeat.
I’m going home.
I’ve just been “home”, in my home country of Canada, so I’m feeling ever-grateful for my roots, for all my family, for all those we’ve gathered in, and for all the long-suffering friends who have asked this past week, “When are you coming home?”
My home is my lover; wherever he is, there I am.
Wherever I’ve traveled, he has made that longer journey of sacrifice to join me, and found my heart — his home.
We are journeying toward each other on Thanksgiving, speeding past mountains newly dusted with snow, and fields dotted with snow geese.
His voice on the phone sounded breathless; we’ve changed travel plans a few times, just to find the right place to meet. He’s driving solo, noting all the raptors in Oregon’s fields.
For once, I’m not impatient with travel delays — not even the wrong ticket the first Amtrak agent printed, making a confused morning even more confusing. (The little refund later seemed like a Thanksgiving gift.)
I’m thankful to have spent more than a week in one home, and to be traveling by train to reach my other, deeper home. Every moment is one of thanks-giving.
I wish you all a peaceful day of thanksgiving too, wherever you call home.