The End of the Summer

 

 

Family vacation.

It's something that has happened every year since Nephew One was born.

After the summer officially ends, after the lifeguards and exchange students and families have packed up and headed back to reality, we slip quietly in.

My parents rent a house on the beach, and me, my sister, her husband, and two little boys happily help them fill all of the empty guest bedrooms.

There is nothing to do, nowhere to be.

Mornings are spent watching the sun rise, my mom and her oldest grandson wrapped in a blanket singing "Here Comes the Sun."

Breakfast is leisurely and often sugary. We watch the dolphins swim by while we finish the last of the coffee.

The days are spent on the beach, wrapped in layers if it's cloudy and cool; otherwise soaking up every last warm ray of post-summer sun.

Books we started reading months before get finished, as do the new ones just begun.

Nephew One pretends to be a pirate, a crab, a tractor moving piles of sand.

Nephew Two is still too little to pretend, he is instead content digging, splashing, and running after sea gulls.

 

 

 

At noon, a church bell rings. We call it the Beer Bell.

It is a signal to gather all of the towels and the toys into one pile and head in for lunch.

Naps happen.

For babies and adults alike.

As the sun sets, we need a stretch from our lazy day.

New wiffle ball rules are made: double points for hitting a beached crab or fish; triple points for an air-borne sea gull.

Cartwheels are done in the outfield.

Nobody wins.

Nobody loses.

Dinner is a poorly choreographed ballet of too many people around a too small stove, conducted and danced in our pajamas, sun-kissed skin and sandy hair.

Nephew One loves the dinner time jammie parties.

And the sleeping parties he has with his little brother, the two sharing a room for the first time ever.

Nights are spent playing Candy Land, checkers, and Vacation Rummy.

But only after we watch the moon come up, and the stars and planets twinkle.

We scatter on sofas and chairs and fall asleep, one by one.

We sleep early. We wake early.

We are lucky for this time.

We are happy.

And we will hope to do it all again next fall.

 

 

To The Sea

It has become a sort of tradition for my family. After the season has ended, and the crowds and the vendors and the noise have all returned inland for the winter, we rent a house at the shore. Last year we were, for a few days at least, nearly two dozen strong, taking over two houses and a large stretch of beach.

This year, we were just a few, with a visiting aunt and cousins staying near by. My parents rented a house right on the beach, and the rest of us followed them to the coast like the obedient children we are. From the deck, just past dunes dotted with yellow flowers and butterflies, was our very own private expanse of New Jersey shore line.

Mornings were spent breakfasting on the deck, watching the sun rise like a ball of fire over the horizon. That first morning brought an endless stream of dolphins swimming by, occasionally jumping out of the water as if to say hi. The days were spent on the beach, digging in the sand and looking for shells. If you are two and the ocean is the greatest thing in the world, incidental things like water temperature don't matter a bit. Adults sat scattered about in various states of covered up, reading and napping and gossiping. Kites were flown, castles were built.

The sun fell, and the layers were piled on. Mugs were filled, either with tea or with beer. We watched the moon and listened to the waves, wrapped in blankets and stretched on lounge chairs. Endless hands of rummy were played, none of them in much of a hurry to total a score of 500.

At night, the only sounds in that deserted beach town were the waves crashing yards away from the windows, and the midnight ramblings of my tiny roommate: "6789!" "Whatcha doin'?" And a late night jaunt that had him stuck and calling for help, on his hands and knees at the bottom of the bed, stuffed duck in hand. He never did tell me where it was he was going to, on that journey in his sleep.

We have all grown accustomed to, and now savor, that late-season week by the sea. The chilly winds having long since blown away the crowds, leaving us virtually alone in the town to make our own amusement. And a long stretch of beach, empty of people save for family.

xo