Celebrating Thanksgiving in the Lower 48 yields gratitude, both for out-of-state family and an Alaska home

I took a two-year, COVID-19-caused hiatus from Thanksgiving with my family in Massachusetts. This year, post-vaccine and post-COVID, I decided on nearly two full weeks back east, partially to catch up on lost time, and partially to avoid the most hellacious parts of holiday travel.

My memory tricked me.

The rose-colored hue my brain cast on my upcoming trip was strong. It will be warm, she whispered. The sunshine is always strong on the East Coast in November, where it rarely rains. Home feels exactly the same as it always did because nothing and no one changed since you left nearly 20 years ago. Your social skills are completely up to snuff, as are everyone else’s after extended bouts of isolation. There have been no disruptions to social fabric or business as usual back east; all of your favorite childhood establishments are still open and exactly the same.

Massachusetts averages in the 30s in November, with a heavy slate grey sky that is as stubbornly consistent as the rain once that gets going.

There are leaves everywhere, and a constant din of leaf blowers. Want a free idea for an inspiration poster for your office? “FUTILITY,” showing masses of brown crinkling leaves swirling endlessly around East Coast suburbia four straight weeks in a row as landscapers hopscotch from backyard to backyard. You’re welcome.

There is lip service to cyclist infrastructure on the narrow roads that are constantly halfway blockaded by — you guessed it — landscaping service trucks. Don’t worry — passage is not actually blocked. The giant parked vehicles just mean you make a wish and a prayer as you arcade-style careen your car into the opposing lane to pass. But, between all that and the Paul Revere’s ride-style winding roads, I’ll pass on riding a bike.

There are no mountains. My dad lives off a steep hill called Indian Head Road. Charming name, I know. I didn’t think twice about it growing up, because I’m an elder millennial who learned only about Pilgrims. I run up that hill sometimes, repeatedly. A neighbor cracks that I’m earning my extra slice of pie. I laugh back, a bitter edge to my voice.

In Alaska, I’ve permanently earned my extra slice of pie. In suburban Massachusetts, the easiest thing to do is just sit. And sit, and sit, and sit. Punctuated by trips to the gym, inside, with all the other people who usually sit but occasionally also go inside to move. Rinse, repeat.

I don’t live here anymore, and the house is now completely my dad’s. It’s older than I remember it, yet frozen in time in ways both comforting and scary. I pull open a cabinet and whisper to my husband, I think that coconut oil is the stuff we bought 10 years ago. We stare at it. We don’t throw it out, because to start that process means to remove the next item, then the next one behind it. Then there’s the cleaning which is even scarier and more endless.

My first few days back home, I retain what feels like me. After that, even if I’m not constantly sitting, being surrounded by it starts to get to me. It feels like I lose my shape. I have no bearings or point of reference in a crowded, narrow environment with no open vistas or mountains; it feels like I am constantly in the car whipping around blind corners caused by giant leaf blower trucks. I try to take frequent walks to stave off the feeling of sitting that is starting to infuse me. I run, but find it tedious on the suburban sidewalks lined with cookie-cutter Cape-style homes with shiny cars and annoying signs out front.

One sign tells me I’m special. How do you know? I grumble as I pass. Maybe I am completely and utterly un-special.

I go to the gym.

My favorite noodle shop closed. My least favorite chain ice cream shop also closed, which is only sad because it was comforting to see that it never changed. My old bank got bought out and has a new name. At one intersection of what should be a back-of-my-hand level of familiarity route, a block of brand new condos totally disorients me. As my dad’s visiting neighbor puts it, Framingham has been “discovered.”

I nod politely. So nice to escape the mean city for the suburbs, where one can really sit.

We escape briefly to the city. Boston feels walkable, alive, and in many ways new. Old — I mean, coming from Alaska, everything down to the cobblestones on some streets feels charmingly and shockingly historic. But there are new and delicious eateries, museums I’ve never been to, routes I’ve never walked before to connect the dots between neighborhoods. We take public transportation and while it’s slow, it’s excellent not to drive.

Then we go back to the ’burbs.

I can’t say I miss Alaska. I keep glancing at my weather app to determine just exactly when my car battery is likely to have died in my driveway due to the extreme cold and our seeming inability to purchase a block heater.

But I miss who I have become in Alaska. I miss the cleanness and order of my own house that I’ve carefully assembled; the little routines in my life that add up to me. I miss my movements, from running my normal routes, skiing with friends, or doing YouTube workouts in my living room. I miss the kinds of food I normally eat. I miss the mountains and wide-openness and serenity of not having leaf blowers constantly going.

I’m glad I had Thanksgiving with family, and am sincerely grateful for the time with people. What’s clearer than ever to me is that I’m not sure how I came from that environment and know for damn sure I can never live there again. Next time I visit, I’ll throw in a few nights in Boston or New York City, a trip to New Hampshire or Maine, or even out to Western Massachusetts. Anything to shake up the sitting and get a new perspective.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.