My cousin William and his significant other visited my town for Thanksgiving week. His pilgrimage to the Midwest has become a tradition. He has flown to Chicago from New York, where he lives now, to join my family’s fall food festival for more than ten years now. He’s usually stayed as a house guest at my sister’s, or, in the early years, at my mother’s. This year, since I now have an actual home with a guest bedroom, John and I hosted him and Mary Ellen for a couple nights of their visit.

John and I have had a few house guests since we moved here six months ago. His mother came for a visit last June. My sixteen year-old niece has crashed here when her father was out of town and she had the flu. A friend of John’s stayed here a few months ago when Bruce Springsteen performed at a pair of concerts at Wrigley Field. We know the drill; make sure there are clean sheets on the bed, ample towels in the guest bathroom, and room in the closet to hang any dress slacks that made it into carry-on luggage.

I’m a pretty casual sort of host. I want people to feel comfortable in my home, and I think that’s best accomplished by establishing a limited amount of rules and getting out of the way. I show people where the coffee is, show them what outlets are best to use for charging cell phones (i.e. not likely to be used for other things), and warn them about the quirky way the ice dispenser in our fridge will spit out half-moon shaped discs of ice for several seconds after the lever is no longer engaged.

I like having guests because I am proud of my home and like to spend unstructured time with people who are important to me, especially if they don’t live nearby. Besides, having guests always gets me to enjoy my hometown more. Having visitors gives me an incentive to plan special outings. William and Mary Ellen’s visit was no exception.

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, the night they arrived, my sister and her husband, joined William and Mary Ellen, John and me for a dinner at a good old-fashioned Italian restaurant. Wednesday night we all went out for barbecue and caught a show at Second City, the sketch comedy club where John Belushi and other SNL favorites cut their comedic teeth. Friday, our East Coast visitors moved to our place as home base. I took them for a stroll down Michigan Avenue to observe late afternoon Black Friday hordes shop Chicago style, then John and I took them out for dinner and a play. Saturday, we had a leftovers party. In between planned activities, and more meals than I care to think about, we played Trivial Pursuit, downed martinis and argued politics. (Thankfully, no blood was shed.)

On Sunday morning, John and I went to Soldier Field to indulge in our own once a year ritual, a Bears game. When we came home, William and Mary Ellen had already left for the airport. The house was quiet. John went to his music room to play the drums for a while, no longer worried about disturbing anyone. I caught up with email correspondence I had been neglecting, no longer worried about keeping guests pleasantly entertained.

John picked up a couple steaks, which we grilled and ate with whatever sides we had in the house. We weren’t worried about actually putting together a meal. We veg’ed in front of the TV Sunday night, indulging in some more football, which has become extra interesting to me since I am now aware of John’s Fantasy Team roster. And I felt a strange sort of ease sweep over me. Thoughts about stripping the bed in the guest bedroom or laundering towels in the guest bathroom were dismissed quickly. I unbuttoned the top clasp of my jeans and poured myself a glass of everyday wine.

I love having house guests. I also love when they go home.

Having your space to yourself is no small thing.