I dream of sunshiny beach days and the smell of sunscreen lotion when we lined up on the woven mat by the sliding screen door through which we could see the sea grass waving in the breeze and hear the sound of the wild ocean. We fidgeted and begged our parents to hurry up with the tedious task of smushing and smearing the obnoxious pasty white stuff in our faces. There were so many of us cousins that it took far too long, and we feared we would miss the best of the waves.
Those were magical mornings when the tall, cozy, creaky, beach house was abuzz with excited conversation and little feet thumping up and down the steep wooden steps. The kitchen was always open by the time we were awake at the crack of dawn, for Papa was always prepared to delight us with thick, scrumptious slices of French toast made with his homemade bread and drowned in good New England maple syrup. We loved climbing up at the bar stools to have our plates served alongside our very own monogramed mugs which had been kept tucked away in the cabinet all year. Papa made those breakfasts special, and then he’d pack a liberal picnic composed of sandwiches made with the same bread, Polar seltzers, and the bag of chips kept atop the refrigerator away from little hands. There was beer for the adults, which we were glad of since we liked to play with the empty bottles by filling them up with seawater and turning them upside down to watch the water drain out. Somehow that was amusing to us. I remember running to and from the water and the umbrellas; I was eager to play in the terrible waves but was always drawn back to my mother and the babies watching us from the camp. The babies were pleased to be out in the fresh air, their chubby feet free and their hands curiously reaching for the warm, rough sand. Eventually they would fall asleep nestled on beach towels, lulled by the constant, soothing sound of the crashing waves. The grandparents would sit watching us too, reclining in folding chairs with beer and coolers of cheese and crackers and other little delicacies. They once let me have a taste of their sophisticated snack and I liked it very much. We always wanted them to join us in the water, though. I loved when my grandparents would take me by the hands and walk with me down to the waves. As a small child I felt so safe when they were with me as a big wave approached. “Ready?” they would say, and just as it came to swallow me up whole, they’d swing me up and over so only my feet were splashed and I squealed with excitement.
In those days I had not a care in the world except should my mother make me take a nap once we came home that afternoon. Heading back was an event in its own way. We had to rinse off all the sand and salt and seaweed in the big outdoor shower. The mothers efficiently rotated groups of children so we could all be squeaky clean before the hot water was completely gone. The shower was fun, though, and we tried to take much longer than necessary shampooing our hair or spraying the hose at our feet. The bathing suits were wrung out and hung to dry on a clothesline strung between the strong, sturdy beams that supported the house. Then we were wrapped in fluffy, dry towels and sent up the stairs. Inside the same screen door, we anticipated goodies and card games all afternoon (if naps weren’t mandatory) and consequently our slippery wet feet were wont to go swiftly up the steps, much to a mother’s dismay. I suppose the mothers needed naps more than anyone–so lovingly did they arrange all our joys and comforts in ways we could not have known. Someday perhaps I shall know all these things when I have the blessed opportunity to give my own future children such a taste of paradise.
C. C. Bennett
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