the habit of being

“Your Home is where I am,” my mother tells me, defensively and gently, if I slip-up and refer to my apartment in New York or the town in Georgia where I grew up by the hallowed H-word. “You might think you’re walking home from work now, but your real Home is right here.”

So, For the holidays this year, for the first time, I went Home, not to Statesboro, but to Frederick, Maryland, a city where no building can be built taller than the church spires, and everything is named after Francis Scott Key. I went Home to the Francis Scott Key Hotel, which isn’t really a hotel anymore, but has to keep up the illusion of being one because it is a Historic Site. Visitors stop into the lobby on tours, where they might see such relics as the origami ornament my little brother made for the Community Tree. Horse-drawn carriages frequently pass by on West Patrick Street, and my parents’ cocker spaniel barks at them from their window three storeys up.

If The Francis Scott Key were really a hotel, I probably could’ve gotten my own room. But since it isn’t, I got the couch.

Though my mother and I have a pact never to Frenzy (that is: clean up the house) for one another, when I arrived on Christmas Eve Eve, the Pigsty Factor was low. The Tree, as promised, was Fat and Bushy and ready to be decorated. It was past Cocktail Hour, so my stepfather made us all a drink before we commenced with the Oohing And Aahing At Ornaments. Each colored ball, wire-footed bird, glass pear, clip-on penquin, and popsicle-stick reindeer was contemplated and tested on multiple branches before coming to rest in that Perfect Spot. I topped off our holiday greenery by placing a long skinny turkey feather into the hands of the Angel On Top. A slightly crooked plume reached up for the ceiling. I flopped down with my Vodka and Red Bull, stared at our tree: It was Good.

The next day, the presents, wrapped in white paper, tied with everycolor ribbon, tagged with such slogans as “To Mule, From Nag” and “NO-fucking-EL,” were shaken. Bribes for hints were made. I brought up, again, that The European Method is to open the gifts on Christmas Eve Night, rather than waiting All The Way until Christmas Morning. My fourteen-year-old brother admitted that those Europeans are pretty smart. Maybe because there was no Santa business this year, or because perhaps we’re all old enough now to admit to one another that we have no self control, despite my stepfather’s protest that Europeans Are Gay, we started digging into the goods at approximately 1:30am. For me, there were cashmere and Calphalon, chocolates and cash.

My primary role in the present-buying operation is making my mother’s Stocking. None of the men in the family have ever successfully managed to get her anything she actually wanted, perhaps because they don’t understand the intrinsic differences between $10 candles from Wal-Mart and $40 candles from Saks. And so I come in, NYC Shopping Fairy, with my tiny Kate’s-Paperie-wrapped extravagances, and every year she tells me it’s the Best Stocking Ever.

After all the Opening was said and done, and the Pigsty Factor was through the roof, there were still Five More Days. I settled into my role as The Daughter On The Couch, while spoons were accidentally dropped in the garbage disposal, calls to relatives were made (Well, butterbeans are butterbeans, Daddy, but if you’re sick, you need to be home in bed. Grandmother’s feelings would be more hurt by your risking your health than by your missing her cornbread), 20+ hours of West Wing episodes on DVD were watched, and squash casserole and endless red potatoes were eaten.

We are a family into Playing Games. On our computers, my mother and I took up Mah Jong Solitaire, the Daily Jigsaw, and InkLink. On the livingroom table, there was poker, spades, Monopoly, and The $25,000 Pyramid. The Pyramid often caused fits of riotous laughter rather than correct answers. For example, Me, when you’re not strong; Anything, if you’re James Dean; Guardrails, except you’re not supposed to; and Carrie, if you’re Miranda walking down the aisle at your mother’s funeral; were all failed attempts to get at THINGS THAT ARE LEANED ON.

My parents decided to get a head start on Quitting Smoking Again for the New Year, so globs of chewed Nicorette gum started appearing all over the apartment: on the kitchen counter, on the lid to my little brother’s acne cream by the bathroom sink. I even caught the cocker spaniel crewing a piece once, neglecting the New Duck he’d been given for Christmas (to replace his Old Duck, with its beak chewed off). The dog was also a fan of Cocktail Hour, knocking over drinks whenever he could. Maybe if he’d done a better job of hijacking mine, I wouldn’t have tripped on the way back to the poker table and hurled a cup of chocolate pudding all over his back.

We didn’t leave the house at all, expect to get the Traditional Christmas Ritz Carlton Shrimp Cocktail (at Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, rather than Buckhead, Atlanta, this year). My back hurt from the couch-sleeping, and I was aching for a door to close myself behind. But even though I was soon counting the hours until I could get back to New York and My Life, it was impossible to deny that my mother was right: even in this little city that was never my own, because my family was there, I was Home.