Home. Celebrate him home, as Kenny Loggins once sang.
When my son gets home for spring break, his sheets will smell like leftover Moo Shu Pork, the glaze still in my fingers as I pulled his sheets from the dryer a few nights before.
When Smartacus gets home, he will find a feast in the fridge – kabobs, cutlets, ribs – for us to toss on the grill late at night, maybe after a movie or a quick game of catch.
For lunch, there’ll be cold cuts. And perhaps the greatest comfort food of all: frozen corndogs.
When Smartacus gets home, his personal wolf (White Fang) will make such a fuss. First, she’ll soar like a balloon, then she’ll become extra submissive so he’ll rub her big Siberian belly. Then she’ll twist and whine and raise a ruckus.
Home. Celebrate him home.
When Smartacus gets home, he’ll stick around five minutes before he darts off with his four apostles — Luke, Michael, Chase and Cole — who have known him since kindergarten and can still make him laugh till he hiccups.
Seems forever since I’ve seen him. When Smartacus steps out of the airport terminal, I still get goose bumps. Parents live for homecomings, particularly single moms and dads. The family home comes alive again.
That first night, he’ll smell the Moo Shu Pork in the sheets and think: Dad. Snow peas. Garlic.
Finally….
Home is comfort, scent and sonics — the way the old couch in the den fits your butt, the way the candles flicker and hiss on the mantel. When you’re home, you know where the steak sauce is and the red pepper flakes for the pizza…the Cape Cod chips under the stove.
And where Dad hides the Haagen-Daz (in the freezer, behind the fries).
At home, you know the benediction of a long, glorious spring evening. You remember the pollen on the window screens, the March Madness on TV.
I’ve missed him tons since January, missed making him epic breakfasts, our hikes, the jokes, the golf range.
Especially the breakfasts.
On a lark, I almost bought him a pancake-themed bed set. The pillows were wrapped with bacon. Who wouldn’t sleep better atop four billowy pancakes and a slab of bacon? It’s like a Tim Burton brunch.
Beautiful. But I feared White Fang would try to eat it.
Meanwhile, I’ve decorated the house for Easter. Looks like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
Smartacus will wonder: That thing Dad hangs on the front door? Is that an archangel, or a goose someone shot?
Home is where the heart is, though — also your stomach. Home is where you store your soul.
Home is his sassy older sisters on the west side. And his super-sassy leprechaun niece.
Home is that hole-in-the-wall on the main drag where they make the best burritos. Home is his favorite In-N-Out wrapped in that long line of cars.
At home, there’s always milk in the fridge and three kinds of jam. There are blankets near the couch, socks in your dresser. Gas in the car. That old grill out back, big as a truck.
OK, it’s hardly perfect. That wonky light switch in the kitchen is still broken. Dad didn’t move around the office the way he said he would. The house could use some spackle, some paint, a new driveway.
That big magnolia tree out front: Is it dying or stooping to pray?
Plus, at home, the soundtrack never changes – Stevie Wonder, Gordon Lightfoot, Chet Baker, Miles.
And then there’s Dad cussing at his computer whenever the WiFi drops — a weekly requiem, a dirge.
But the onions sizzle better on the stove at home…is it the spritz of Worcestershire that Dad adds?
The beer is a little colder, the chowder hearty and thick as paste. The cable box has more stations.
Of course, there’s nothing like college life – nothing whatsoever: a felonious camaraderie, a freedom, a tenor, a primal vibe.
But you can say the same about the home where you grew up. Besides, you have clean towels again, really nice towels … plush as a bishop’s pajamas. And that stupid dog jumping up on the bed every morning to slobber you awake.
“Hello,” she whispers. “Let’s celebrate you home.”
Happy Easter, from our house to yours.
Proud to be a small part of a brilliant new book honoring Vin Scully. It’s called “Perfect Eloquence,” and is available at bookstores or through Amazon. It’s for anyone who fell asleep to the sound of Vinny on the transistor radio, or who misses the music of his broadcasts. We were so lucky to have him grace our lives. And with this book, we’ll always have him. Stay tuned for a calendar of bookstore appearances. Essays in the book are by Bob Costas, Al Michaels, David Halberstam, Joe Buck, Harry Shearer, Patt Morrison and many more. A great gift for the Dodger fan in your life. Congrats to editor Tom Hoffarth on this lovely appreciation. Order here.
Beautiful, right down to the bacon.
Sweet sweet post, capturing the magic of your special reunions with your beloved boy and the meaning of home for all of us. I saw the pancake bedding picture in a prior post and wondered what the heck that was about…Glad to have the mystery solved! Hip hap hoppity Easter to you and your amazing family!
Have a wonderful time with your son! I hope the joys of Spring Break
& Easter will fill the longing in your heart.
As slats grobnik used to say at closing time at the Billy goat, erskine, you did it again. Two of our four granchkdren, accompanied by means of their conveyance, their parents, just left after four and a half previous days here, and I’m sitting here in a puddle remembering what it was like when they would come home for school breaks only to high tail it out of town after way too short a stay. Only difference is that one became two, two became four times two. Erskine, you got me again, right in the heart.
You shoulda bought the bed.
How do you manage to bring tears to my eyes every time!!
Thank you for the warm cuddlies. I love when our girls are here with us, too. Happy Easter, Chris, to you and yours.
Just ordered the Scully book. Can’t wait to read it. Vin could make a 12-2 blowout interesting. No one compares to him. Glad you got to be a part of the book.
I also just ordered the Scully book – but I bought it for my oldest, who is a bigger fan. He’ll read it first then I’ll read it when I see him. Looking forward to your contributions.
Enjoy the homecoming. He’ll be the same weight when he returns to Duckland, and you won’t. Worth it. I appreciated all of the visions and smells. My youngest comes home in late April after four months in Japan – can’t wait. I’ll start practicing his homecoming dishes now.
Thanks as always.
Hi Mike. Enjoy the homecoming. I know what a feast you’ll fix for him. Cheers.
And when they have the audacity to move to New York to chase their dream it all comes to a screeching halt. And I just have to cope and fly a lot.
The bed set looks like what Sunday mornings smell like . He would have loved it and been the talk of town.
All perfectly true, whether they are coming home for college breaks or a homecoming for a holiday when they now live miles away. It gets me every time. Hard to type through tears of memories. Best to you and your whole family for a joyous Easter celebration.
“Parents live for homecomings” – perfect. You captured everything.
Daditude. How deep the ocean of these emotions. The waves of words just wash over us on this steadily raining Saturday morning on the Southwest Coast, the water of life here everywhere you look and feel. Here are things writ small that loom sharp and large in a glowing tapestry of fatherhood, love in every letter. And swirling through it all: the food and ritual eating, almost like communion at a time when a risen son is somewhere in the mind of many of us. Gee. I don’t have a son, but I could feel, in the mists of loss and light of a boy, where you are, with Easter dawning tomorrow on yet another rainy day now filled with luminosity.
Perfection, right down to the corndogs.
“Home is where you store your soul.” ~ ~ ~ ~ oh my ~ ~ ~
Please come to Santa Barbara (Chaucer’s Books)with your new book on Vin Scully! So happy to hear you’ve done this! Love reading your posts!
That would be wonderful!
Your word choices were so terrific! And I was on the other end of the transistor radio listening to Vin paint games, the boy without a dad for mutual appreciation the art of Vin’s painting. Somehow I thought Dad was also listening, somewhere out there.
Wow, that’s a beautiful sentiment. You know, Vin’s dad died when he was 4? Fortunately, a great stepdad.