Well now, here we are again, knee-deep in the holiday season, with Thanksgiving in the rearview mirror and all those mercantile ritual days behind us. We’ve survived the chaos of Black Friday, navigated the online storm of Cyber Monday, and even paid homage to the local purveyors on Small Business Saturday. It’s a fine tradition, this consumerist pilgrimage, and it’s only natural that amidst all the jingles, prescription drug ads, and capitalist cheer, one’s thoughts should drift towards family.

And when I say family, I mean that jumble of folks we were handed at birth as well as those we, through various triumphs or miscalculations, have decided to add on. I count myself fortunate with the lot I’ve landed, especially with my wife Emily, who has managed to tolerate me for longer than most folks can stand a Sunday sermon, and my fine son Jon, whose qualities I take credit for, except those he clearly got from his mother.

But enough of the familial sentimentality, I know what you’re thinking. What in the blazes does any of this have to do with “Hotel California”? I haven’t lost my marbles just yet, so I’m going to get to that.

It was only last week, as I was puttering along in my old Jeep, that the Eagles’ classic floated through the radio like a familiar shadow. You know how it is, sometimes a song you’ve heard a thousand times will suddenly hit you different, and you find yourself in a headspace you didn’t expect. That’s where I was. For reasons unknown, instead of just mouthing along and tapping my steering wheel, I got wrapped up in the lyrics, and it struck me that there was more to that melody than I’d ever given it credit for.

Before you jump to conclusions, let me assure you I’m not teetering on the edge of lunacy, at least not yet. There were no sudden revelations whispered by voices beyond the grave, no epiphany brought on by some ghostly visitation. It was just Glenn Frey, Don Henley, and the rest of the gang crooning on about an ominous inn somewhere in the depths of California. And it hit me that perhaps, just perhaps, this place they sang of wasn’t just a metaphor for a substance habit, but maybe something more… geographic.

Now, I was twelve when “Hotel California” first serenaded the airwaves, and I suppose, like most kids, I didn’t bother much with the deeper meaning. Back then, I listened to it lying in bed, headphones snug over my ears, volume cranked up to eleven, lost in the innocent daydreams of youth: worrying about whether there’d be enough Cocoa Puffs left in the box or if I’d ever scrounge up enough allowance to snag a new pair of drumsticks or the latest Pink Floyd album.

The Eagles’ cryptic lyrics floated over me like heavy smoke from my dad’s cigarettes, their ominous talk of “Heaven or Hell,” “prisoners of our own device,” and “you can never leave” was more poetry than substance to my twelve-year-old mind. Not the kind of thing one ponders on a rainy day, backseat-driving a car with rolled up windows, smoke bellowing from the front.

But, as the years went by, I began to suspect there was more beneath those verses. For a long while, I assumed it was all a metaphor for addiction, the sort of thing that made sense, especially in the decades that followed. But last week, something clicked, and suddenly, the song wasn’t about some dark fixation at all. No, sir. It was about my sister, Cindy, and her curious life in California.

Now, Cindy, bless her heart, has been out in California for years, though I’ve never quite understood why. Her husband had one of those big job opportunities that led them out there, and she followed along, kicking and screaming all the while. To hear her tell it, they were only supposed to stay for a year or two, but California has a way of pulling people in, a shimmering land of sunshine and shoe-tanned dreamers, much like the Eagles described. I never thought they’d stay. I figured sooner or later, the pull of Tennessee’s sweet tea and buttermilk pie-rich environment would get them back.

But no, Cindy found herself at the gates of that metaphorical hotel, where the lights shimmer just enough to make you stop for the night. And, sure enough, they stopped. And now, despite her better judgment, she seems bound to that place, “a prisoner of her own device,” as the song says. Oh, she could “check out anytime,” but she can’t quite seem to leave. It’s funny how places do that to people, how a place that seems as foreign as California can get its hooks in you, and suddenly there you are, living a life you never intended.

Cindy’s the perfect case in point. Now, don’t get me wrong, California has its wonders. There’s the beach, perfect weather, no bugs the size of small dogs. But there are sacrifices too. I’m told there’s a dearth of good pie, which, I must admit, is a kind of tragedy not even Shakespeare could write about.

I’m going to send her a subscription to Garden & Gun this Christmas, just as a friendly reminder that there’s a whole wide world outside of that left coast. Maybe a little taste of Tennessee will shake her back to her senses. I was going to send a homemade pecan pie too, but well, you know how it goes, I may have eaten that. One must be cautious when dealing with baked goods and good intentions.

Anyway, next time you hear that song, think of it a little differently, won’t you? The “beast” we can’t kill might just be the sunlit allure of a place that doesn’t fit quite right, and the shimmering lights might not be a Vegas fever dream, but a California sunset that keeps folks, like my dear sister Cindy, just enchanted enough to stay put. It’s a different kind of addiction, less heroin, more sunshine and shoe leather. So, here’s to you, Cindy. Merry Christmas, from Tennessee, where we still have mosquitoes, but we’ve got pie too. And don’t forget, we miss you out here, even if you struggle with leaving all that California sunshine behind.