Commonweal

One time in college I drove my 1973 VW Beetle home from Maine to New Jersey on the day before Thanksgiving and got stuck in evening traffic along the Mass Pike between Auburn and Sturbridge for four hours, a distance of just sixteen miles, and all I remember is parallel ribbons of light—one red, one white—stretching before us going nowhere to the darkening horizon and the fragrance of every turkey roasting from all corners of New England and none of us arriving home in time—or so it seemed at the time—but I guess we did, and now these many years later I’m thankful for us all and more than a little grateful. And I don’t even eat turkey.