A belly full of eight scoops of gravy, mushroom dressing, turkey, and mashed potatoes is settling as I sit in the passenger seat, lulled by the darkness of car and freeway. The rhythmic bumps of the road and the red headlights, punctuated by the occasional orange-yellow blinker, create a mesmerizing scene. They hover like fireflies in the distance, each one a silent conductor beckoning me into a trance.
But alas, no! I have to write. So, I shrug off the procrastinator’s chummy arm and get to work. We pass under large green highway signs: Flat Shoals Rd, E Ponce De Leon, Bouldercrest Road. This hour-and-a-half drive feels like a stretch, even as Dave’s brother’s family and ours daydream about a future where we share a 14-passenger bus for the seven of us.
At a sudden slowdown, our car dings. It’s the Progressive monitor—our little snitch, promising lower insurance rates if we drive just right. Too many abrupt stops, though, and it’s “not for us,” rather than the cheaper rates I fear losing.
I always forget about it. Just two weeks ago, I stopped abruptly at the sight of a tiny calf grazing in the field near our house. The monitor beeped its two-tone alarm, a sound I’ve grown to hate. It’s like a reminder of my own inevitabilities, and, frankly, it makes me mad.
We pass an illuminated QT gas station where prices are $2.97 a gallon—high compared to the $2.60–$2.80 range near home. As we continue down the highway, the glow of city lights begins to fade. The transition from trees flanking the road to the open sky is subtle, almost imperceptible, the kind of thing Bob Ross might capture effortlessly in brushstrokes. Me? I can only write about it.
A billboard catches my eye: a spacious townhome, complete with a garage and wide windows, advertised for $200,000. I glance back at the road just as a river of red brake lights appears, stretching for half a mile ahead. It doesn’t bother us, though—Evelyn is proudly showing Dave and me the words she’s able to read from her comic book: “Ow,” “No,” and “Slap.” Not to brag, but she’s not even in kindergarten yet! She’s only supposed to know letter sounds.
Google’s voice chimes in to announce a stalled vehicle. Bright flashing red, orange, and white lights create a harsh glare that blurs my vision. The kind of glare that makes you want to shake your head to clear the dark spots.
And then, we’re in the clear. From 10 mph to 60 mph, we’re back in the groove. The GPS line guiding us home is green again. Have I told you about the lawyer billboards here in Georgia? They’re everywhere, urging you to call for car accident claims. I mentioned it to a local friend, and she laughed—she’d never even noticed them. Driving here is definitely a different beast compared to back home.
Speaking of home, I wonder when this place will truly feel like home. In some ways, it already does—walking through the door, snuggling on the couch, or tending to the plants out on the porch. But “home” is also a feeling, a sense of being okay, safe, and loved. And you know what? I am. So maybe I’m already there.
Happy Thanksgiving to you. Ooh! We just passed the cutest Shasta teardrop trailer, likely made in the late ’80s, being pulled by a truck. I don’t need one, but my eyes linger, and I can’t help imagining the cozy adventure of bedding down in a camper for the night.
My seat warmer is kicking in now, and I’m going to sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride. But before I do, let me share my three thanks:
- You, my readers. Knowing you show up here brings me comfort and connection, making this space feel meaningful.
- Dave, for his care. Installing a pipe to divert gutter water from drowning my newly planted flowers was an act of love.
- Time to breathe. That hour before dinner to finish my progress notes meant I could fully relax and be present for the weekend.
Thank you for being here. Wherever you are, I hope your Thanksgiving is full of warmth, connection, and a touch of cozy adventure.
Going On 40 