As I mixed Grandma Marie’s stuffing this morning, I dredged memories of the celebration opus our family built around a Carolina beach house last year. I wanted a full house for Mom, too long alone with her grief. We all love her, but the kids are scattered from the Atlantic to the Rockies and ever so busy grappling life’s dragons. Thanksgiving week on the beach proved an ideal no-refuse-offer.
The waves, foamy gray, loomed so high that the sun sometimes shone through, illuminating the living green within. One monster put three-year old Conner to flight. His sprint propelled him ten times beyond its reach. He’d never been to the beach; how was he to know what a wave might do? His dad and uncle chest-bumped the swells, their skin chilled lobster red.
Later Conner helped me carve a heart in the sand to plant glow sticks in that evening–a remembrance for loved ones we wished were there. The house overflowed with celebrations: Asina’s first birthday, the shiny new husband who’d finally won our commitment-shy daughter, more birthdays, much love. In between we walked the beach and collected treasures: a horseshoe crab shell, the makings for a turkey, party favors, dolphin sightings, shared memories. Hope you found some of those today too.
