An Autumn Sunday Drive
It was a beautiful autumn day in late October, early November, a Sunday. The leaves on the trees outside our windows were turning into glorious colors. They were shades of crimson and yellows; and shades of pale greens, ochre and brilliant orange. I had prepared Peter’s favourite breakfast, porridge filled with apples, bananas, walnuts and cranberries flavoured with cinnamon and nutmeg and slowly simmered in milk. The table was set. The teapot was all cuddled in a thick tea cozy, ready to be served. The radio was softly playing the never-ending classical music that I love.
“Peter, breakfast is ready,” I called. “Come down.”
The smell of the steeping tea combined with the aroma of the cinnamon and nutmeg was inviting. “Mm,” he said. “It smells delicious!” as he helped himself to a spoonful of the porridge and sipped his tea. He leaned back on his chair and looked out the window. The rose bush, nestled against the window, presented the last of its graceful pink beauties of the season. Further by the fence and past the avenue on the island dividing the avenue into two sides, the trees in the center were arrayed in their glorious autumnal colors. The sun shone brightly. As we had our first meal of the day, we listened to the music and looked out the window at the beauty the nature had presented us. We ate silently as we took it all in, enjoying the moment.
“How would you like to go out for a drive?” Peter asked. I smiled. “Come on! Get ready. Let’s go,” he said.
It did not take too long to get ready. The weather was brisk, but not too cold. We hopped into the car, and he headed for the highway going east.
“Where are we going, Peter,” I asked.
“Aha! It’s for me to know and you to find out. It’s a surprise!” came his usual answer.
I did not care. As long as we were together, then it was all so perfect. The Long Island Expressway traffic was heavy up to the shopping malls in Westbury. After that, there was almost none. We were heading towards the ocean. The scenery changed. Peter opened his window. One could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The seagulls hovered over the water hoping to catch some fish. They noisily conversed with each other in their seagull tongue. The air was filled with the smell of the ocean and the fish that lived within. A sense of contentment enveloped us. We passed Jones Beach.
Again I asked, “Where are we going, Peter?”
“Patience is a virtue, Stella,” he replied as he continued to drive.
But by then I knew. We were going to Captree. Captree is a small park on the beach where one could go fishing on a fishing trip. There were party boats going out all the time. Many years earlier we used to take the boys fishing on them. They loved it. I remember one time getting on one. The boat was full to capacity. The ocean was a bit choppy. The boat was not too steady and smelled of cigarettes and beer. I began to feel a bit queasy. Two Japanese men, dressed in well-tailored black suits, were catching some little fish that others threw overboard, but not them. One of the men withdrew a sharp jack knife from inside his breast jacket. He slit their bellies open as the poor fish writhed and wiggled in agony. The other man produced a bottle of hot sauce. They sprinkled the hot sauce onto the freshly opened bellies of the writhing fish and popped them into their mouths with great gusto! I stared at them in horror and disbelief. I could feel the meal I had eaten earlier that morning rising up my throat into my mouth. I hurried to the edge of the boat, I turned my head towards the ocean and heaved. After that incident, I was reluctant to go on fishing boats. That memory remains unpleasantly indelible in my mind to this day.
We had no intention of going on any boat trips that day. The boardwalk was practically deserted. The weather, though a bit nippy, was exhilarating. It felt as if we were part of a lucky few to be there. Arm in arm we sauntered slowly from one end of the boardwalk to the other. We stopped to look at the different boats. We felt such a great sense of well-being. Soon, however, the sea air made us hungry. On the boardwalk was a quaint little place that offered a variety of fried seafood and French fries. We had a choice of eating en plein air or in their little dining room. We opted to sit outside. The day was perfect. The food could not have tasted any better if it were served in a five-star restaurant. It was the magic of the day and the place that made it so special. It was the perfect day with the perfect companion that made that moment in time so memorable. It was the sense of well-being and peace. We sat looking out at the ocean and listening to the gentle hum of the ocean and the seagulls sounding their soulful cries. The sun began to slowly set. The weather began getting colder. Reluctantly we rose and headed to the car. As we drove back home, Peter drove holding my hand, as he always did, ever since we first met.
All these years later, that sweet memory remains encapsulated in my mind like the cherished precious jewel that it is. Often, when I feel lonely and lost, I think back to the lovely times we used to have and feel grateful for the wonderful husband that I had.