Living in New York is refreshing. The city is built around highs and lows, and living there, constantly beating the tough moments or stumbling into new ones, has been one of the most rewarding things I’ve done.
But, once in a while, being back on my parent’s couch or running around the back yard with the dogs, feels better than anything else. There’s something about knowing exactly what to expect, and this Thanksgiving was one of those times.
———
The road into the Eel River Valley is nearly always shrouded in Fog; blackened with a thin layer of dew. At night, its dark surface glitters with reflections from tall grasses that crowd its edges and the eyes of cows, deer, and occasional foxes and coyotes that line up just out of reach of headlights.
Driving into the valley after dark is a haunting experience, possibly attributable to bleery hours on the road, but more likely, a combination of the surreality of the area’s aloofness and the feeling that you’re standing just at the edge of a place looking in without actually being there.
Luckily, the moments of arrival are fairly short, it’s around five miles from the dark edge of highway 101 and the bridge that marks the entrance to the valley, to my parents’ farmhouse on the far end. More often than not, a herd of cows slowly meanders across the road, jostling loudly and breaking up the stillness.
Around the last corner, the lights of my parents’ house are welcoming and serene in the blackness. Walking up the back steps, often with the rain and chilly mist breaking the warm lull of the long trip, I always have a feeling of immense happiness. An understanding that for the rest of the trip, I know exactly what to expect, what to do, and that very few surprises await. It’s comfortable. I’m home.