Enjoy this excerpt from "Nontraditional," an essay about a Thanksgiving trip I took a number of years back. Thank you for reading.
Another Thanksgiving was on the way. Having been invited to and declined several traditional gatherings, we geared up for something different, a timely and necessary alteration of plans. We packed our bags, grabbed the pups, and journeyed to the shore, a two-hour ride. Parkway traffic was light and smooth-flowing, the nighttime commute in large part therapeutic, giving us time to push away thoughts of the turbulent north, and look forward to and imagine a few days of subdued shore-living.
My wife and I talked during the whole commute, discussing anything that came to mind. We made fun of situations in life and of each other. Laughter mingled with trivial chitchat, songs on the radio with the dogs barking at passing cars whose occupants cast at them silly glances. Before we knew it we were veering onto the exit for our shore-point. Time had passed in a snap.
The sea at night looked marvelous. Sizable waves lapped the piers and roiled toward dry land. The ocean spoke to us, the soporific sound of the tides rolling, rising, swishing, tumbling—the alluring language of the sea, sound and imagery out of a Conrad novel, or perhaps Jack London. Crossing the long bridge joining highway and island, I took in the panorama. Minor details took on significance, setting the mood. Interior lights in closed buildings captured my attention, as well as lamps sparkling in distant houses; from this far away they looked like little models, bric-a-brac that might easily fit into a dollhouse. Shrink-wrapped boats silhouetted against the cloud-streaked sky seemed easier to distinguish as the moon generously illuminated the earth all around me—a snapshot ideal for a painter’s canvas and for adding to a growing fund of memories. Though the temperature had fallen by several degrees, I felt compelled to roll down my window and drink in the fluctuating wind, sampling its brackish flavor—the flavor of freedom, a reminder of what I’d been missing since my last visit and what to expect upon each and every return.
The main boulevard was desolate. Despite the late hour on Thanksgiving Eve, I could detect a tangible energy in the air, as if I were in a big city after most have gone to bed for the night though the city’s essence remains alive and pulsing like a fitfully beating heart. Though I was tired after the long ride, I fought off rest, and gave in to my desire to take in again all I had just experienced—a medley of sights, sounds, and smells, awakening and heightening my senses, bringing about clarity.
Having settled in and organized our belongings, we ventured outdoors with the dogs; they, too, imbibed the atmosphere. I could tell by the bounce in their gaits. From my front walk I could hear the waves crashing onto the shore, charging toward the equidistant dunes. Oceanic sounds, especially the surging waves, can flush clear one’s mind, revive one’s spirits, and put the “here and now” in proper perspective, sharing without discrimination recuperative powers. All one can do is be grateful, respectful, and humble in its presence.
Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
On February 20, 2003, pyrotechnics at a rock club in West Warwick, RI set off a devastating fire that roared through the crowded club, killing 100 people and injuring hundreds more. Gina Russo was one of the survivors, and she retells her harrowing e
