Being single and solitary can provoke a state of bliss.

Nobody to answer to; any number of open choices, at any given time; no constraints, no deadlines; the essence of freedom.

Except on Thanksgiving.

It’s really about the math. I despised learning about ratios as a kid, primarily because they escaped my comprehension. Now, in chorus with every reviled math teacher, I can’t deny how they figure in my life.

The degree of extended family connection we experienced in the early years is directly proportional to the effect its absence has upon our level of comfort during “the holidays.” Add to that the impact of memory on our psyche and, depending on how visceral or visually vivid these are, you have the recipe for loneliness.

Mammy, our grandmother, had been second maid to a wealthy Jewish family (likely a brewer) in eastern PA. Responsible for the cleaning and cooking, she grew to become quite the master of “Pennsylvania Dutch” cuisine – pressure cooker prepared pot roast, steamed rutabega and fried parsnips, peas and carrots soaking in their own juices, boiled lettuce salad, and apple, cherry, and rhubarb pies. The table was a grand oak, and round, but with a leaf for the big dinners. The overflow sat at linen clothed card tables, in the livingroom and we kids (Timmy, Frannie, Bonnie, Paul, me and Kathy) at ours in the sewing room beyond the kitchen.

English, Danish and married into Irish were as noisy as a wake at a Baptist funeral. Take the aroma of roasts and pies and add constant talk and laughter until somebody said something, and your quotient was the classic American holiday.

Most of us lived across the street and a few doors down from our grandparents’ house. The rest came from Ohio, bringing their wide “o’s” and their board games (Risk; Probe; Battleship). As a child, I learned that watching the aunts, uncles and cousins was as entertaining and satisfying as any attempt at immersion. I would grow to become this writer, capturing as much of what I had grasped after during those years as could be retrieved. Even now, staring out the windows at the stillness of impending snow, not a soul in sight, if I sit quietly enough the voices filter back and fill the air, the occasional flitting bird moving aside just enough to allow them space and I feel in the center of me just behind my heart the ache of remembrance.

Last week, as a sort of personal therapy I determined to head all this off by baking a pie and gifting it to someone other than myself, family, or friend. The recipient was to be a former student and various work associates at a nearby grocer. That milieu, with its casual prattle and the inherently brief nature of each encounter had served to cheer me out of what had become a rather frightening crisis of confidence. I had found myself, for the first time in several decades, depressed enough to define the state and feel nearly frantic in its clutches.

To my mind, with its freeze framed fears of a future in isolation, choosing an act of kindness was supposed to yield the respite of comfort. Give, with no thought of taking. Hadn’t we been so carefully taught?

Predictably, the process itself – baking the pie – was the therapy. Packing it, still warm, freshening my face, choosing shoes and coat able to withstand November rain, I headed south to the store.

Timed as precisely as possible, my arrival was to be unobtrusive, during the final minutes of a shift, most customers fixed on grabbing that last minute lemon, jug of milk, or bag of ice, all sent by those in charge of the impending gathering at home. Surely, my act of the hour would be swift, yet meaningful and appreciated.

Herein lieth the lesson.

I’d worked many a holiday in the past, serving happy people in the American family restaurant. This was a different scene, entirely. The store was congested – traffic, like so many wireless beams. The staff, including the intended recipient(s) of my gift had been there nearly eight hours, withered by the fatigue of public demand. Where to put the pie was problem number one. More would follow.

Being single isn’t a problem. Missing the counsel of family, those one or two who have your back and appear right when you need a reality check, can be. I could have used my younger brother, touching my shoulder in the kitchen just as I’d been ready to pack the car, gently asking what I was doing and why. Mum would have had plenty to say, mostly with her ironic scoff in tow, embarrassed at her daughter’s bold transparency. Dad, seated napping on the couch, and smiling in his sleep, would have said nothing.

But, they weren’t there. I was alone, doing the wrong thing, yet again.

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And so the sun had set, to rise on another annual day of celebration.

Making good out of hapless misstep was God’s job.

For that, I could be thankful.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

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11/28/24. Ruth Ann Scanzillo. littlebarefeetblog.com Originally published on FACEBOOK, Thanksgiving Day.