Thursday, August 15, 2013

On the Beach


It is a blustery day, seasoned with dashes of sunshine, frosted with intermittent rain.  Ann and I walked our bikes to the bike store during a moment of early morning wind and rain. Operative and informative verb being “walk” as our bikes had an appointment for a safety check and tune up before we use them to explore abandoned railroad right of ways that have been made over into a coastal trail network. Our friends and Ann’s Deakin work mates, Bernie and Kristian, lent us their bikes for the duration of our stay. We are excited about how our range of exploration is expanded as a result.

Yesterday’s voyage was back to the beach for me, a solo walk while Ann was on campus, but as usual I had a lot of company.

I thought about the grandmother that I really never knew as a person.  Aside from occasional Christmas visits with GaGa before dementia took her away someplace else, I really only knew her through the largely unflattering stories told about her. I knew that she loved me though, and that was a precious childhood gift that I still have. She also loved the beaches of Long Island, beaches I never met. She would periodically send beach plum jelly, made from wild beach plums. The beach plums and GaGa are both long gone, but not their memory.

The beaches of my youth were those of southern Cape May County in
New Jersey, and in particular Stone Harbor, New Jersey. (“The Seashore At Its Best,” so take that “Cooler By A Mile” Avalon).  Riding a wave of nostalgia I momentarily left my walk to join the surfers who were out on the water, but those thoughts were soon wiped out by the rhythm and pace of walking the beach.


From Stone Harbor, to Hilton Head (South Carolina), to Delnor-Wiggins Beach Park (Naples, Florida), to Lady Bay, Warrnambool, family preceded me, joined me, and was catching up as I looked back over my shoulder. 

My mom and dad’s ashes were mixed and sent to sea at Hilton Head only a few months ago. I frequently feel them walking the beach.  As this walk progressed, it was niece Rebecca who came to mind, and her own long solitary walks at Hilton Head that were crowded with thoughts being cleared.  Rebecca knew well how to stop and look at things.  The smile as she show-and-telled of discoveries found along the way is still warming.  And then up popped the much more recent image of grand nephew Cullen at just now discovering the excitement of some of those same beaches.

This tidal trail of memory drew me to the small stuff, the miniature flotsam and jetsam of shells, a pale collective swath of little treasures, a ghost like presence left behind by the receding water:





These small beach bits took me forward, and followed me home to Ann.


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