As I get settled in Kinston and take a moment to catch my breath, it seems appropriate that the Thanksgiving holiday is upon us. Nestled a month before Christmas (which is a whole other set of issues all together) it really is a time to pause and reflect.
I have much to be grateful for, particularly in the last month as I made my announcement in Georgia and made arrangements to return here. I’ve always said it takes a committee to raise me, so you can imagine the group effort it took to get me un-situated and resituated, two states away.
To give that a physical representation, I sat down this week and wrote thank-you cards to my Georgia friends. There were almost 20, and that doesn’t count the people I didn’t have an address for after much searching. I felt like the bride after the wedding.
For the last multiple Thanksgivings, I have spent the day at the home of my friend and President-emeritus of my “Second Mom Club,” a woman named Pam. The first year I was at her house for Thanksgiving, the two of us and another friend ate so much we literally had to lay down and take a group nap after the festivities were over.
Thanksgiving at Pam’s is the kind I love. She doesn’t care what you wear, what you bring or even if you bring anything at all. Only your presence is required, even though you might be asked to put a serving spoon in a dish every once in a while as a slew of family mills about. And there literally is enough food to feed an army. This is a woman with her own steam table in her kitchen and foam trays to send leftovers home.
Pam is serious about food.
Her rambling country house is set up to accept company, with spare bedrooms upstairs available for whoever may need them, whenever that may be. I stayed there three days right before I moved back to North Carolina, when my stuff had to leave before I did and I needed a place to land. My last morning, she made me a breakfast of grits and eggs and sent me on my way with a reminder to get my oil changed before I hit the interstate.
Even though it added time to my trip that morning, I did it. Sometimes we actually do listen to our mothers.
Last year, Pam got sick right before the holiday and spent several days in the hospital as doctors tried to figure out what was wrong. I received other invitations for Thanksgiving, and I was grateful, but nothing felt right.
The night before the holiday, she sent me a text. She was home and Thanksgiving was on. Her daughters were doing the cooking, even though I knew she’d jump in and help.
Sure enough when I arrived, she had an apron on and a spoon in her hand. Old habits die hard.
The celebration was subdued last year, even though we were all extra thankful to have Pam there.
This year I’m extra thankful I got to spend that last holiday with the woman who loves me as much as my own mother in what was my last holiday in Georgia. As I write this column on Wednesday night, I have multiple invitations here in North Carolina too. I’m grateful for that and I’m sure I’m going to have a wonderful time here.
But I’ll miss “Mom.”
Jennifer Shrader is the managing editor of The Free Press; her column appears in this space every Friday. You can reach her at 252-559-1079 or at Jennifer.Shrader@Kinston.com or on Twitter at jenjshrader.