Thursday nights in August found us putting Elio in his pajamas after dinner, loading the car with Amelia, some clothes, recipes, books, and flip flops, and then making our slow, slow way onto the BQE and the LIE, Elio falling asleep somewhere past Lefrak City, Guy and I talking quietly or listening to the radio. Eventually the traffic would begin to drop away as we took the LIE to the very last exit, through the outlets and chains of Riverhead, then turning off 25 into the humid darkness, driving through farms and vineyards, beginning to smell the salt, very faint, in the air. Elio would usually wake up just before we'd drive on to the dark, late-night ferry, full of people who like us had been slowly exhaling ever since the Empire State Building left the sights of their rearview mirrors. And then 10 minutes more through quiet black punctuated by the light of bedroom windows here and there, a scuffling for the key, a deep breath, turn on the small hallway light. We had arrived.
Our weekends in Shelter Island were magical. They were magical because we were able to live our ordinary lives in an utterly extraordinary setting. Wake up in the morning and let Elio out the back door to run with Amelia in the grass. Make coffee and drink it on the back deck while watching a dozen geese all land on the water at once, breaking the stillness. Take every shower outdoors and let Elio run around naked for hours at a time. Think nothing of going to the beach for a quick swim before dinner. Wait for that magic light that happens in that transition time between the heat of the afternoon and the cool of sunset, the light in which these pictures were taken.
Thursday nights in August found us putting Elio in his pajamas after dinner, loading the car with Amelia, some clothes, recipes, books, and flip flops, and then making our slow, slow way onto the BQE and the LIE, Elio falling asleep somewhere past Lefrak City, Guy and I talking quietly or listening to the radio. Eventually the traffic would begin to drop away as we took the LIE to the very last exit, through the outlets and chains of Riverhead, then turning off 25 into the humid darkness, driving through farms and vineyards, beginning to smell the salt, very faint, in the air. Elio would usually wake up just before we'd drive on to the dark, late-night ferry, full of people who like us had been slowly exhaling ever since the Empire State Building left the sights of their rearview mirrors. And then 10 minutes more through quiet black punctuated by the light of bedroom windows here and there, a scuffling for the key, a deep breath, turn on the small hallway light. We had arrived.
Our weekends in Shelter Island were magical. They were magical because we were able to live our ordinary lives in an utterly extraordinary setting. Wake up in the morning and let Elio out the back door to run with Amelia in the grass. Make coffee and drink it on the back deck while watching a dozen geese all land on the water at once, breaking the stillness. Take every shower outdoors and let Elio run around naked for hours at a time. Think nothing of going to the beach for a quick swim before dinner. Wait for that magic light that happens in that transition time between the heat of the afternoon and the cool of sunset, the light in which these pictures were taken.
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