Quiet gratitude in Billington's Cove

Hand-built pottery by Julie Whitmore.

Billington's Cove, practically a sentient creature in its own right, found a reasonably painless path by which to return to, as some choose to call it, normal.  Those who fished, fished.  Those who lay about resumed that with happy lethargy.  Thinkers thought, the baker baked, gossips conspired, tides ebbed and flowed.  Over years, generations, Cove dwellers had practiced until they were masters the art of appreciation for gifts bestowed, benevolence at the whim or plan of the universe.  They did not pine for additional days of outdoor picture shows nor grumble as the sno cone cart was wheeled back into storage. 

Here there would be no Christmas lights left up and burning past New Year's Eve to prolong the holiday (simple love of outdoor lighting was, of course, welcomed).   No jack o'lanterns hunched on porches on Nov. 1, though many were cleverly turned around to present the uncarved pumpkin face to an autumn-gripped world.  It was not so much that there were rules, more that time had helped develop a collective ability to let the good of a moment or a day or a season be enough.  The ethic involved a deeply-held and never discussed - because there was no need - blend of optimism and trust that what was concluded would return.  It was a belief that did not impair the ability or inclination of a Cove resident to dream or to hope.   They knew what to dream of, what to hope for.  Cycles were just that.  Comings and goings were the rhythm of life.  Finding peace and reassurance in the calendar freed the heart for other yearnings.