‘It’s August. Grab those beachy memories while you can.’
Somebody wise once said that August is like the Sunday of Summer. (I think it was me, actually, but it’s the kind of thing that more than one wise person certainly could have come up with.)
Now I’ve written about this bittersweet end-of-summer stuff before, in ‘Yup. Even Slackers Get the Labor Day Blues’ and ‘The Days Are Long, But the Season is Short’. But, hey, it’s my blog and I’m feeling, well, a tad ‘Augusty’.
I’m pretty sure you know what I mean. It’s like you’ve just dusted off your white bucks on Memorial Day and then you realize Labor Day is coming up and you’ll just have to put them away again without having worn them even once. Or like you told yourself you’d have plenty of time to go through all the photos from that birding trip to Africa and make a book out of them already. And, speaking of books, please don’t get me started on yes, this summer I’ll get my act together and find an agent and/or a publisher to turn my stories into a real pages-and-ink book.
But enough whining. Speaking of summers and beaches, here’s a joke that’s a favorite of my mom’s. She tells it best, but I’ll give it a shot.
There was this gramma watching her grandson playing on the beach with his bucket and shovel. Suddenly a huge wave rolls in and washes the baby out to sea. The gramma looks up to the heavens and begs with all her heart (stopping just short of rending her garments because she’s only wearing a bathing suit): “Please, God. Have mercy! My grandson is the love of my life — please please return him to me!” Well. Her begging and pleading were so anguished and sincere that, sure enough, another wave rolls in and deposits the baby back on the beach — his bucket and shovel too. So the gramma looks up at the heavens and cries out, “Hey! He had a hat.”
Oh, before I go I should perhaps explain about the “foot sandwiches’. See, The Child and I used to spend a lot of time at the beach, even though I wasn’t much of a Beach Person. As I’ve mentioned before (in ‘Getting Along with the Neighbors’), I didn’t grow up on a Coast and remain decidedly uncomfortable in or around Water That Moves. But it was part of my Mom Job to accompany The Child to the beach and to have fun there, dammit. So off to the beach we’d go. The picture at the top of this post illustrates our times there perfectly. We’d boogie-board and build sand castles and eat corn chips and nectarines and leap about in the (small) waves, which I called “tsumami“. And yes, we do still have that towel. It’s my favorite, along with the one with the map of Central Park on it.
While on the beach, The Child would offer to make me a “foot sandwich”. You had your choice between “hot” or “cold”. A hot foot sandwich meant she’d bury your feet in hot sand and put hot rocks on top. A cold foot sandwich was similar, but with cold water poured on top instead of the hot rocks. Bet you can guess which I chose.
Anyway. I’ll miss you, August. But I have U.S. Open tennis binge-watching to cheer me up. (Go, Roger!) And a Weekend Full of Girls to look forward to. As for you Blog-Reading Friends, enjoy the heck out of the rest of this week. I’ll be seeing you again before you know it. In, sob, September.
Amagansett, New York. August 2017