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.
grin.
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