The picture is of me and my younger brother at Thanksgiving in the early 1970s.

As I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, we moved in with my grandmother after my mom and dad divorced. I had 24 cousins on my mom’s side, and so our Irish Catholic family usually had about 40 people gathered on the major holidays (our year revolved around the pivot points of Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas).

We had an Adult Table, populated by my aunts, uncles, grandma and her cousins and her aunt (my great-great-aunt Aggie, who, upon her death, left me the horse head portrait that hangs in my living room today).

The Kids Tables were structured in tiers because there were so many of us. The eldest cousins sat at card tables; the middle group perched at TV trays; and the youngest were situated behind upended buckets, (pictured above). The only way to graduate to a different table strata was through death. As the eldest of the last wave of grandkids, the best I could ever hope for was a solid position behind a TV tray.

My grandma believed in work before play, so the post-dinner festivities couldn’t happen until the dishes were done. Even though we had a dishwasher, my grandma washed most of the dishes by hand. She’d stand at the sink, churning through the bubbles, placing clean and rinsed dishes in the drainer. My cousins and I would form an assembly line, each grabbing a dish. We’d dry it and put it away before taking our place at the end of the ever-moving line. Aunts and uncles bussed tables. In our family, if you ate, you were also part of the clean up crew.

After the chores were done, we’d break out the Lionel train set for my uncles. It had smoke pellets, a metal track and actual electricity surged through the rails. Looking back, I realize that these men were in their 30s, but from a child’s perspective, it was novel to see adults playing with toys. We kids were forbidden to touch the train set, but we could hand smoke pellets to our uncles, which they dropped in the train engine.

Another Thanksgiving ritual was “Showtime,” a skit competition among the cousins. I joke to people that, as someone of Irish descent, they don’t let you off the island unless you can sing, dance or act, but the satire is wafer thin. My grandma ran a tight production, and if you couldn’t hold the floor, you were unceremoniously yanked off the stage with her shepherd’s crook.

Fast forward to when I was a single parent of my own three daughters, and my Thanksgivings were much different. The age difference between my oldest and youngest is five years, and so for much of their childhood, our house was home to a flurry of activity. I seldom had a moment alone, as from dawn to way-past-dusk I was parenting.

Thanksgiving was one of the rare times the girls saw their father, as he lived out of state. The story of their father is the subject of a separate post. For today’s purposes, I’ll focus on the fact that Thanksgiving was the one day that I had the luxury of time and solitude.

• I could take a nap.
• I could wash my hair.
• I could read a book.
• I could take a walk.

As we all got older, the day morphed into a Friendsgiving sort of affair, with me holding a day-long open house. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love spending the whole day cooking, hosting friends and just enjoying being surrounded by people I love.

This year is decidedly different. My solitude is still here, but it’s a forced reality, due to the Coronavirus pandemic. However, my daughters and I have already coordinated today’s Thanksgiving rituals. We’ll share a watch party of the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles, FaceTime each other and send texts of our dinners-in-progress. All three of my daughters are really amazing cooks, so I look forward to seeing what’s on their menus.

I’m grateful for all of you and look forward to growing together. Wherever you are, I hope you are safe and healthy.

Thanks for joining me today, and I’ll see you soon.

P.S. Every Sunday, I publish a free weekly newsletter called the 3 Minute Reset, which includes life lessons, life hacks and treats. To subscribe, click here.