LETTERS FROM HOME: MISSING PERSONS

November 26, 1993

Dear Patrick, Arlene, Angela, Critter and Nick, Duke, Marylea and Ivy, Erin and Marki and Jackson, Tom and Michelle, Emily, Dominick, Peter and John,

Imagine, it's been almost two years since we've seen each other. Jackson and Ivy must be ready for the Big Leagues by now, and there's another young one I haven't even seen.

I miss you and think of you often, but most often at this time of year. You were my family there for awhile, and Thanksgiving was the holiday that always reminded me of what I was missing.

There were just so many people gathered in Fountain Valley on Thanksgiving, and so much between them. I always thought, this is the quintessential American family -- coaches, teachers, artists, a hairdresser, a musician, writers, an actor, a student. Surfers and intellectuals, comedians and introverts, white and black, weak and strong, each one a beauty somehow.

Some making it, some struggling, some married, some not, some gay, all obviously in love with each other.

I smile remembering Toodie's 48th birthday party, watching you watching her lace up new white roller skates. Her cruising through the neighborhood that night with her giddy grownup children tagging behind.

I trust your Thanksgiving was like everyone else -- delicious smells, and football in the living room. But by the end of the day, I'll bet the grownup children were lying in a pile on the floor just as they did as kids.

Earlier in the day, Patrick said a prayer and, as food is put on plates, he went around the dining room tables asking each one what they are thankful for. I don't remember what I said back then, but I sure was glad to be there.

It has been two months since I've seen my wife, yet another acute degree of separation. I met her at the airport Thanksgiving morning in St. Louis. She has added it up. We've spent exactly 12 days together so far. I didn't say "Hello, darling," when she walked through the gate. Seemed forward somehow.

Maybe that's why we're getting married all over again this weekend. There's some question in her mind whether that first one, so impromptu, really happened. "Are you sure we're married?" she keeps asking.

Our first Thanksgiving together. I'm discovering how happy this state called married could be.

Like me, DC has her own second family out on the West Coast. They are dear to her as you are to me.

Now I have rediscovered the dearness of the family I was born into. Our dog piles are much smaller than yours but my nieces and nephew get the idea.

Lots of far-flung family members will be at this weekend's post-second-wedding reception. Here I'm just recently back among my relatives and already my notion of family is expanding to include my wife DC's.

I'm learning that the best families are like attitudes: adjustable. They make room for every stripe of person and encircle them with love.

Some open their arms to lost boys like I was and shelter them until they can find their way home again.

Sadly I think of all the people who couldn't be home for Thanksgiving, or didn't feel at home, and the many reasons why. I know the sweetness they long for.

Love, Sam