After enjoying a wonderfully delicious Thanksgiving dinner Thursday evening, I ventured outside to find a misty blue evening graced by a cotton candy sky. The day, at first raw and rainy, had turned into a magnificent overture of pastel hues — a pale moon peered down through wispy clouds, which cast an aura of pink over the neighborhood; fog had rolled in from the Connecticut River during the meal and muted the rural landscape into soft tones.
Through this magical space I wandered, past barren trees that stood stark against the sunset, their black branches reaching toward the sky as if they were roots. Corn stalks, chopped low to the ground, rolled away toward a distant treeline in perfect rows.
If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought the houses I passed were made of gingerbread; their dew-covered lawns made from sweet icing.
After a little while, streetlights flickered to life and, through the swirling mist, porch lights illuminated seasonally decorated front steps and neighbors winding down smaller-than-usual celebrations. It felt like a scene from a Normal Rockwell painting. Of course, the reality was hardly idyllic.
Across the nation, more than 250,000 families mourned a loved one who was taken by COVID-19. Gatherings were small, if they happened at all. Many celebrated without their families. Others saw each other digitally via video conferencing platforms.
Thursday’s Thanksgiving celebration marked a weird and challenging start to the holiday season.
As we continue on into December, the pandemic continues to loom over every aspect of society. With coronavirus cases increasing locally, I find myself once again working from home again and, as much as I can, isolating from friends and family.
It’s a psychological marathon.
In this, I’m grateful for quiet walks through familiar woods; for midnight runs under the light of the moon; for the sensation soft raindrops on my uncovered head; for morning sunlight and the sound of squirrels running through the underbrush; for beautiful sunsets and unexpected misty evenings — that is to say, I’m thankful for the free gift of nature.
Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.