The Beach
The beach has been part of my life ever since I can remember. Although I was born on the east coast, I spent many of my early years in the midwest. We would take annual treks in long car rides to the north shore of Boston. My father would say the air smelled different when we crossed into the New England states.
We stayed in houses where the seacoast was our playground. I learned to swim in icy cold water. I played imaginary games along the rocks, creating playhouses out of crannies. We walked in the mudflats at low tide. We learned to clam, using our feet to burrow into the sand. I would return blond and suntanned after too many hours outdoors. On my return one of my friends thought I was an Indian when she saw me at the door. She saw the dark-skinned girl with braids at the door. The pigtails did not get daily attention and probably did not get rinsed out much. We had a rusty bathtub in the house so avoided bathtime.
These free days, marked by the arrival of the ice cream man, Ipswich fried clams, and jelly doughnuts from some bakery, included afternoons reading comic books on front porch swings and gliders. They also created association of the beach with family. My grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins often joined us. We had Fourth of July games and cookouts. For children it was idyllic. My mother did not necessarily share the sheer enjoyment; she had five children, including babies, no washer or dryer, and all the work of packing up trunks of cloth diapers, sheets and towels in advance.
I have continued that beach journey for over 30 years with my own children. We go to a different beach, an island in New England. We have traveled in stuffed station wagons, children jumbled with dogs and cats, towing boats and carrying bicycles on top. We've stopped and added a cousin or two. My children still come, now with their children. We overflow the house and need another one just too accommodate the growing generations.
The family memories intermingle with the beach, but the sea is the draw. People ask me what we do, and I struggle with the simple response of walking, swimming, biking, picking blackberries. They are not the words of a travel brochure. The beach, however, attracts us to its shore, sometimes sandy, some years covered with rocks. The waves lap the shore or crash in when the sea stirs up. In summer umbrellas and towels dot the landscape, but only the bathing suit style makes this year differ from 1975. We see and hear the chanting seagulls. We hear the children jump in the surf. We taste peanut butter and carry a sleeping child home. The dunes and dune grass frame our view. The old farmhouse in the distance still dominates despite a few trophy home that now dot the shore.
I now understand my father's intake when he returned to New England. The air is fresh and invigorating. My walks along the beach are cleansing, allowing new year resolutions on a different schedule from the calendar. My soul - if I have one - and my spirit are renewed. I feel close to nature, one with the wind and the mist and sunshine on my face. This beach view is a one that stretches back years, a repeated snapshot rather than an amusing snippet.
We stayed in houses where the seacoast was our playground. I learned to swim in icy cold water. I played imaginary games along the rocks, creating playhouses out of crannies. We walked in the mudflats at low tide. We learned to clam, using our feet to burrow into the sand. I would return blond and suntanned after too many hours outdoors. On my return one of my friends thought I was an Indian when she saw me at the door. She saw the dark-skinned girl with braids at the door. The pigtails did not get daily attention and probably did not get rinsed out much. We had a rusty bathtub in the house so avoided bathtime.
These free days, marked by the arrival of the ice cream man, Ipswich fried clams, and jelly doughnuts from some bakery, included afternoons reading comic books on front porch swings and gliders. They also created association of the beach with family. My grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins often joined us. We had Fourth of July games and cookouts. For children it was idyllic. My mother did not necessarily share the sheer enjoyment; she had five children, including babies, no washer or dryer, and all the work of packing up trunks of cloth diapers, sheets and towels in advance.
I have continued that beach journey for over 30 years with my own children. We go to a different beach, an island in New England. We have traveled in stuffed station wagons, children jumbled with dogs and cats, towing boats and carrying bicycles on top. We've stopped and added a cousin or two. My children still come, now with their children. We overflow the house and need another one just too accommodate the growing generations.
The family memories intermingle with the beach, but the sea is the draw. People ask me what we do, and I struggle with the simple response of walking, swimming, biking, picking blackberries. They are not the words of a travel brochure. The beach, however, attracts us to its shore, sometimes sandy, some years covered with rocks. The waves lap the shore or crash in when the sea stirs up. In summer umbrellas and towels dot the landscape, but only the bathing suit style makes this year differ from 1975. We see and hear the chanting seagulls. We hear the children jump in the surf. We taste peanut butter and carry a sleeping child home. The dunes and dune grass frame our view. The old farmhouse in the distance still dominates despite a few trophy home that now dot the shore.
I now understand my father's intake when he returned to New England. The air is fresh and invigorating. My walks along the beach are cleansing, allowing new year resolutions on a different schedule from the calendar. My soul - if I have one - and my spirit are renewed. I feel close to nature, one with the wind and the mist and sunshine on my face. This beach view is a one that stretches back years, a repeated snapshot rather than an amusing snippet.
posted by Lynne Levesque and Judy DeBrandt at
3:09 PM
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