Issue link: https://www.cominghomemag.com/i/1541378
My mother, sisters, and I drove home to Washington from Boston after spending the holidays with my grandparents. Everything was smooth sailing until our car broke down somewhere in the Heartland—maybe Nebraska or Iowa. With all the towing companies and auto shops closed, the only spot open was a small-town diner. Freezing and stranded, we headed inside, grateful for a warm place and food. What we found was more than a hot meal: the staff welcomed us like family, served up comforting food, and joined us in singing carols. Ironically, it remains the sweetest evening I've ever had. – Mike B. Mike B. As kids, we spent Christmas at a mountain resort, sledding, exploring, and hunting for our own tree. A few years ago, my brother and I set out to find the perfect one, and boy, did we! We had no clue what we were doing, but we managed to hack away at the thing until it finally fell. Then, we dragged it home behind our snowmobiles. The tree was sad and scraggly—pure Charlie Brown material. We had to hold it up with fishing wire to keep it standing. It didn't survive the night, but the story did. Even now, that ridiculous tree continues to get laughs. – Wendy S. Wendy S. When my son was in junior high, all he wanted was a longboard. Everyone knows I shine at picking gifts, but not wrapping them. And that goes double for awkwardly shaped items, like a longboard. So, instead of wrestling with scissors and tape, I displayed it in the corner behind our tree, covering it with a wall of wrapping paper. I figured it would remind him of when the football players break through the banners at the local ballgames. He may not remember the wrap job, but he does remember the friends and memories he made in the neighborhood that year. – Robert K. Robert K. On the day before Thanksgiving, my grandma always makes lasagna—my grandpa's favorite, reserved only for that Wednesday. One time, while preparing the marinara recipe her mother taught her, she got distracted and burned the sauce. In a panic, she stirred it vigorously, scraping all the burnt bits from the bottom and mixing them into the whole pot. When we sat down to eat, my brother kept saying, "This tastes weird. Does anyone think this tastes weird?" I could see my grandma holding back tears. Before he could repeat it, my Uncle Jack cut in: "There's nothing wrong with it. It tastes great! Now be quiet and eat your food." We still laugh about it today (over a plate of lasagna). – Mary D. Mary D. COMING HOME MAGAZINE 25