Thanksgiving-feast skonked

As a grief-stricken widower, I am continually advised to interact with people, as if that will counteract my incredible sorrow.
Well, okay, but I’m a loner. Always have been. People make me nervous.
Usually those advising enjoy interacting with people. I’ve always kept to myself.
Be that as it may, I’ve attempted to include more people in my life.
But like it or not, I always return alone to an empty house.
It’s nice to have people around, but they are only a distraction — a distraction that melts away.
I have befriended various people I would have never befriended with my wife still around.
And I imagine I’ll continue doing so despite different values. —They still make me nervous, but only slightly, like I don’t want to do or say anything that sets them off.
It turns out that various of my south Jersey relatives hold a Thanksgiving-feast each year. It’s held at a younger cousin’s house.
I found this out from another cousin, and suggested maybe I should attend. —The brokenhearted widower trying to be with people.
So we’d do it. Planning was set in motion. Arrange to board dog, make contact and verify house-location, and map out my long trip to south Jersey.
Actually I would stay with my younger brother in northern DE, then leap over the Delaware River to south Jersey on Thanksgiving day.
A trip to my brother is about 7-8 hours, in other words, all day.
I would drive down on Wednesday, November 26th, and return on Friday, November 28th.
I had to begin planning this at least a month in advance.
I had to make sure my never-ending surfeit of medical appointments, etc., didn’t conflict.
And boarding a dog for a holiday isn’t something you arrange at the last minute.
So I set out yesterday morning on my long journey to northern DE. A nor’easter was rumbling up the east coast; heavy snow was predicted on my route.
There was no snow when I departed my house, but it was cloudy. That was an hour-and-a-half after leaving off my dog, which was at 8:45, and I had got up at 6 a.m.
It takes about 25 minutes just to get to my dog-boarder.
My car needed gas, so I stopped at the famed ArrowMart in tiny Prattsburgh.
ArrowMart is probably the only gas-station in Prattsburgh.
And you’ll note I spelled it “Prattsburgh” with an “H,” not “Prattsburg.”
(My spellcheck is hip; it’s flagging “Prattsburg.”)
For years the highway-signs entering Prattsburgh had it as “Prattsburg.” Meanwhile the Post Office and town platt-maps had it as “Prattsburgh.”
We used to worry about this stuff at the Messenger Newspaper, because if it ran as “Prattsburg” the CONSERVATIVES might call and loudly excoriate our head-honcho. They also might do if if we ran it as “Prattsburgh.”
We were the dreaded media, and therefore too liberal.
CONSERVATIVES would claim they could do a better job.
Now the highway-signs into Prattsburgh spell it with an “H.” —The old signs were replaced.
But I noticed my ArrowMart gas-receipt  still has it as “Prattsburg.”
Snowflakes were beginning as I left ArrowMart, and by Bath it was snowing lightly.
The roads were still clear, so I got on Interstate-86, headed for I-81 at Binghamton.
The snow got heavier and heavier as I continued east. The highway started to ice-up.
East of Elmira (“el-MY-ruh”) a black Toyota RAV4, that had been passing me, slid off the road into the center median.
No damage, but I began to wonder.
That RAV4 didn’t hit anything; not even a guardrail.
I probably continued another 10 miles, then decided to give up.
It’s a 65 mph road, but I was down to 50-55 mph, gingerly trying to avoid a spinoff.
I got off on a ramp to U.S.-220, and circled around to what I thought was a ramp back on.
It wasn’t. It was a Scenic-Road, probably the original highway, that parallels the old Erie Railroad and the Chemung River. (Erie is now Norfolk Southern.)
I-86 was nowhere in sight.
Thank you NY. In PA they tell you if there’s no re-entry.
I followed this scenic road at least 10 miles, then came into a little town with a crossroad that claimed it intersected I-86.
I got back on. So began my long journey home, about three hours.
I also had to shop the supermarket in Canandaigua to get supper.
My cousin from south Jersey called when I finally got home; I had e-mailed him I had to give up.
He suggested I drive down Thanksgiving Day.
“Not that simple,” I said. Just setting up this trip took a whole month.
Everything is scheduled to the hilt.
And it’s the old waazoo.
The laundry doesn’t do itself.
The bed doesn’t make itself.
The dishwasher doesn’t unload itself.
The laundry is 10-15 minutes.
The bed is 15-20 minutes.
The dishwasher is 20-25 minutes.
These things add up. So rollout to breakfast complete is over two hours.
Sure, I could just re-arrange my bed in maybe five minutes — in which case I get to climb into a mess at bedtime.
So free Thanksgiving dinner with the oldsters at the church up the street.
During which time I kept to myself, as always; since I knew no one.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• The “Messenger Newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired almost nine years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)