Travel: New England Traditions
When I moved back to Rhode Island in the early ’90s and had kids of my own, I saw a sign one day outside a church: May Breakfast This Saturday. In that moment, I could already smell that church basement. I could already taste the eggs. We didn’t dress fancy, but there were long folding tables and eggs and pancakes and bacon and weak coffee and Dixie cups of orange juice, all of it served by Boy Scouts in their tan-and-green uniforms with their colorful merit badges.
We ate and ate, and then we climbed the stairs and opened the door and stepped outside. Dogwood trees wore pink-and-white blossoms. Tall purple irises bowed as we passed. I paused. I took a deep breath. Spring. That’s what May breakfasts really do: They remind us that winter is over. Spring is here. Anything is possible.