Column by Jim Bishop
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I thought several times, including aloud more than once, “What are we doing in Virginia Beach the last weekend in November?”
Each answer was a variation on the same theme: “We’re having a ball. Why didn’t we do this sooner? What an incredible way to celebrate Thanksgiving and get primed for the Advent season.”
Both Anna and I had a felt need – sorry, I hate that phrase – for a brief getaway and in fact had planned to do so in October, but needed to cancel at the last minute. At the time, we figured we wouldn’t make our annual trek to our second most favorite beach spot (after Ocean City, NJ), then looked at our crowded calendar and said, hey, how about shooting for Thanksgiving weekend? We’ve never been to an Atlantic Ocean beach this time of year and thought it might be adventuresome.
(Well, not quite. Growing up, the Bishop family took the occasional one-day outing in the dead of winter to the Jersey Shore just to walk the non-crowded boardwalk and anticipate a longer excursion there come summertime, a longstanding tradition).
We hit the open road the day after Thanksgiving and were surprised to be able to sail through the usually congested stretch of I-64 from Newport News through the Hampton Roads tunnel to Virginia Beach in such short time. It was a Friday afternoon, but traffic was light.
In checking into our beachfront room at the hotel I discovered that I managed to bring items that I usually forget, like my deodorant stick or toothbrush, but this time pulled my razor cord out of the suitcase – but no electric razor. The front desk gave me a disposable safety razor and some pasty white glob wrapped in plastic, and I proceeded to open up fine cuts all over my cheeks, neck and under my nose. It was a close shave, but I didn’t call 911.
We decided to eat Saturday breakfast at the hotel restaurant – a mistake. First, we stood in a waiting line nearly 20 minutes to be seated, and we were the only ones in line. No one even acknowledged our presence; the place was busy, but we should have known better than to hang around, especially as a large group of people at one long table kept talking louder while their kids ran back and forth between tables.
But here’s the clincher. Once we were finally seated we had to ask for utensils and beverages. Expecting it to take another eternity to place an order, I filled out an order slip for a made-to-order ham and cheese omelet and then Anna and I headed for the breakfast buffet line. We returned to our table to find a very large man and three small children seated there. The kids were already eating and had made a general mess of things.
So what now? There were several empty tables, but it didn’t feel right to just let it go, given the general irritating experience leading up to this moment. We tapped one of the elusive waitresses and told her that another party had taken over our table. She discovered that the large man had also ordered an omelet, using a form from the same table, but with different ingredients. She asked the foursome to please move to another table, and he acted indignant. The kids started crying, and then we felt terrible. But the waitress politely and firmly told them to move. She whispered to Anna, “This guy is playing head games with the wrong person.”
We got our table back, but I had difficulty enjoying my overpriced omelet and cold toast.
But after that dubious moment, things quickly improved.
I found it incredibly therapeutic to stand on our tiny balcony overlooking the ocean, watching the sunlight reflect over the calm water and listening to the surf smash up against the shoreline. Landscaped areas of green
turf, lush vegetation (yes, Virginia, there are palm trees in the Old Dominion) and rows of brilliantly-colored pansies contributed to the stimulating panorama.
A highlight of the day, or evening, had to be taking in the traditional “Holiday Lights at the Beach” light show on the boardwalk, starting at 2nd St and stretching all the way to 34th street. I put the top down on the
Miata and joined the caravan of vehicles creeping down the boardwalk. We were given a specially-made CD of delightful Christmas instrumental music to play as we absorbed the colorful lights and animated displays. If you’re in Virginia Beach in December, I recommend putting this on your “to do” list. The $10 entry fee is worth it.
I took along my laptop computer, took advantage of a wireless connection in our room, and marveled again at the ability to check my office and home email, read several affirming messages from readers of this column (including one long-distance from Winnipeg, Man.) and send a report of our weekend to family members.
It was especially gratifying to receive electronic messages from all three of my brothers in eastern Pennsylvania, each containing some personal, poignant reflections on what it means to be thankful, whatever the season or circumstance.
This observation from my youngest brother, Mike, especially struck home: “I think of the feeble attempts of guest preachers at the Thanksgiving Eve service to reinvent the universal call to be thankful always. Especially challenging is to remain upbeat and full of gratitude the day after, which is like waking up only to remember that you are scheduled for the dentist or that you must travel a distance to attend a wedding on the first sunny day in spring, when you were looking forward to getting into the flower beds.”
Less than a week earlier, I had visited my 88-year-old mother, Ann Bishop, at Rockhill Mennonite Community in Sellersville, Pa., who is dealing with major health issues. So I was especially touched when Mike added: “I had the humble task of feeding Mom her Thanksgiving dinner. Let’s just say she did her best. At face value life is cruel. At a deeper level it is a gift. We can only hope we are never alone as we journey here below.
“Blessings for the joys of Thanksgiving leftovers,” he concluded. “Health, happiness and may all your Advent hymns be bright.”
Having returned safely to the ‘Burg and the regular routine after battling the post-Thanksgiving interstate traffic, feeling rested and energized and in the wake of our all-too-brief respite in Virginia Beach, I’m ready to join fellow congregants in singing expectantly, “Hark! the Glad Sound … !”
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