Every year, people post on Book of Faces, or write to their local paper’s “ethics” columnist or, sometimes, columnists write about Thanksgiving family stress.

I used to liken family visits to having to fold my adult personality into a small square and place it gently in my childhood dresser drawer, behind the socks. The family, including the parental units, could not deal with the grown person that was me, and only related to me as the child they once knew.

I was no longer that person.

Anyhoo, when my wife and I married — in our early twenties — we were not in a position to host Thanksgiving. Our relatives lived on Long Island and in southern Connecticut. The two family groups would invite us to their T-Day feasts, tugging at us each year like Bluto and Popeye jockeying for a shot at Olive Oyl.

We took turns. One year at the Kleinman clan. The next year at the Stolzenberg tribe. That strategy generated ill-will with the family that was passed over that year. So, we made a decision: each year we’d do dinner at one place, and dessert at the other.

That was worse. Far worse. Everyone was sore when we (a) departed early or (b) arrived late. Plus, we were exhausted by the logistical nightmare of running running running on a day that was supposed to be “fun”. Ha!

So one year, we gave them all the finger. We spoke to our dear friends, Ken and John, who also had familial issues around the “day of thanks”. Screw this, we collectively agreed. Let’s just the four of us celebrate.

We reserved rooms at bed and breakfasts on the rocky coast of Maine. We flew into Portland, rented a Lincoln Town Car (I know, pretty bougie, right? But it was a deal). A light snow fell when we arrived, which was bad news for our rear-wheel drive rented car and our New York City-friendly Italian footwear. But great news for our aesthetic sensibilities. The foliage! The ocean’s saltwater scent! The flavor of fresh fish! The sound of the furious breakers!

We enjoyed traditional Thanksgiving dinner at the B&B, drove (very cautiously) on twisty snowy roads up and down the coast, did some shopping, ate lots of chowder, and had a grand old time, free of familial stress.

Avast! Maine in fall is cute as a fg button. You want to pinch its little red cheeks.

We didn’t miss our families that year. Not one bit. We made our own memories, minus the stress of idiot uncles spouting nonsense, questions about why we were still childless (“Why? Because we’re having too much fun as a young NYC couple, that’s why!”), fighting traffic, etc. etc.

In time, the torch was passed to us, and for decades now, my wife and I have hosted Thanksgiving. We’ve had as many as 16 guests. We’ve cooked many pies, roasted many birds, and popped many corks. A raucous time is always had by all.

Someday, some family member may decide to bug out, and make their own T-Day memory. We’ll gladly oblige. We know what that’s like. But this year, we’re hosting again, and every on of our eleven guests (including three strays) is champing at the bit to join in the fun, and contribute to the feast.

Which is as it should be. At its best, Thanksgiving is a mellow time of breaking bread and wallowing in that precious and rare commodity: joy.

I guess we learned how to handle the situation from our experiences with our elders. We back off, give everyone their emotional space, and cherish the fact that we’re all here, still safe and sound. Nothing more. Nothing less.