A Day at the Beach

I don't have a regular formal writing hour and I
seem to be lost without it.

I'm sitting outside in the after shade of the cool
Florida sun.  It's 3:30 and the heat of the day's
sun has dwindled and a cool breeze waifs through
the long pencilled fingers of the palm trees that line
this neighborhood's swidwalks.

I can hear the voices of my 7 and 8 year old  grandchildren
as they chorus in unison with the other children on the block
as they play with their bikes, jump rope or just hang out in
groups scattered on the black macadam street.

John, my husband, needed to buy some type of Nutri-
Cal for the Yorkie, Murphy, so the dog will eat his dog food.
John is sitting opposite me rambling on about the dog.  I catch
a word here and there as he laments about the fact there is
no Nutri-Cal.  I try not to listen.  I succeed.  And John
finally leaves in the car in venture of his quest.
Hopefully he will find his way to the Pet Store and then
back home.
(For those of you who don't know John, he has memory
problems, so this is indeed a quest.)

This morning John and I went to Daytona Beach.  It
cost us five dollars to gain access to the beach and then
the beach was ours.  We parked our car not too far from
the entrance, popped open the trunk and dug out the green
and red beach chairs and proceeded to sit back and enjoy
the day's sun.

The rays were warm on my face and I put my head back and
listened to the music of the waves rolling in and hitting the beach.

The sounds, the breeze, the warmth of the sun stirred my
memories and brought me back to my pre-teen years.

My father used to come home from his day job and if it was
early enough he would pack my sister Helen and I into the
family car and we would head for Rockaway Beach.  Helen and I
had great times there and we would swim and jump in the water
until my father would whistle for us to come out.  Even if it was
crowded we  would  recognize his whistle anywhere.
Then we would head home and Helen and I usually fell asleep
in the back seat curled up and leaning against each other.

On the weekends my mother, father and Helen and I would head
for the beach early Saturday morning.  It had to  be six o'clcok
in the morning because we needed to find a parking spot and on
Saturday every car in Queens was pointed in the direction of
Rockaway Beach.  The race was on.

We got to the parking spot on 98th street early,  parked the car,
and with cooler, the old beach umbrella, towels, and blanket in hand
we found the perfect spot on the beach.  We laid out our blanket,
set the umbrella for the best shade and hurriedly put a shoe on the four
corners of the blanket to ensure that the blanket
wouldn't blow away.  Then we would put our towel, shorts and blouse on
the designated part of the blanket that was our own individual spot for the day.

My sister and I couldn't wait to get to the water and with an all right,
okay from my mom we were off.  With squeals of delight we would
race to the water's edge, hesitate one moment, test the water with our
toes and and then we'd start running into the water and splash each other,
We would then hold hands, scamper haphazardly over the waves and
then finally laughing, giggling and out of breath jump over the waves.

Helen was 5, I was 6.  Helen was 6, I was 7.  Helen was 7, I was 8..
And so our journey to the beach continued.

My mom would make hard boiled eggs and balogney sandwiches with
mustard and we would buy a cool drink from the beach vendor.  On
days when my father had extra money my sister and I were treated to an
ice cream.

My sister and I were always famished and the hard boiled eggs tasted
soooo good.   On more than one occasion I got sand on my egg or
sand in my balogney sandwich and I would feel that horrible crunch
in my mouth that I didn't like.  I would look at my mother for help but
all she did was shake her head.  The look she gave me told me that I
had to deal with the sand on my own.

People would start to leave the beach but we thought we had the best
parents ever.  We stayed.   The lifeguards went home.  We stayed.

Then my sister and I would climb up the lifeguard's chair and wrap
ourselves in sweaters, long towels, anything to keep warm and we
would just sit there and listen to the sound of the waves and look out
at the stretching waters dancing on the horizon.   We stayed that way
for a while.

I remember my mother and father used to sit on the blanket.  My mother
would have herself propped up on her elbows, her long legs out in front
of her.  Her face and eyes lost in thought looking out towards the water.  My father
would be sitting up straight, his right knee would be bent and his hands
would be clasped around it.  His other leg would be straight in front of
him.

I remember them sitting  there, not talking but listening and watching the
waves.  Once in a while my father would bend his head towards my
mother and I  could see them whispering.

So, that brings me back to the moment of today when John and I were
at the beach sitting in the sun listening to the beat of the surf and feeling
the soft stirring of a breeze on our faces.

It invoked in me a memory, a memory held within the boundary of sounds
and whispers and stirrings of beach days long ago.