I don’t care what they say, it’s all about the whipped cream. One of my best early childhood memories is sitting in my highchair parked in front of a cut glass bowl of whipped cream. Total bliss.
When I hear about loneliness on Thanksgiving, it breaks my heart, even more than Christmas. It’s kind of a Hallmark Hall of Fame sentiment, I know, but I always think of everyone as someone’s child on Thanksgiving, and that their Mom and Dad never intended for them to be alone. I know it happens, and often, but it’s still a shame. There are no presents, so the economy shouldn’t be a big factor; it’s just food, there is no excuse for being alone. Children grow up, families scatter, it’s cold and people don’t want to travel. There is something to be said for staying under the radar some years. But people can get stuck and forget how to resurface. I am most troubled by those who think the world has given up on them, and they are somehow destined to loneliness even though aloneness was all they sought.
As I was falling asleep the other night I heard a voice on TV say something like, “short of real tragedy or a felony, these holidays that we bemoan make up some of the most interesting moments, the best stories, of our lives”. There are people out there, people we know, and they, and their stories, are waiting to be found and treasured again.