I have vague memories of Myrtle Beach. I have just a few. They are all in black and white- just like the pictures. I remember we were happy, though. We were all so gloriously happy. It was a huge old house with hardwood floors and I remember the backyard was small, just a grassy opening bordered by tall grass or reeds and it was a gateway to the beach. There was a brief stone path for the conventional but really all you had to do was part those grasses with both hands, and have at it.
There was plenty of laughter and cold drinks, and my uncle was speaking to my father then. My grandfather even wore short sleeve shirts, and smiled a lot. He stood out on the open brick porch and sipped his Tab.
We were oblivious to all this down on the beach each day screaming, and shrieking in the foamy green bathwater. We buried each other in that fine white sand daily, and marveled at our excavation work anew. I didn't stay with them always. Sometimes, I left their melee, and wandered down the beach a bit, in search of the perfect beach washed lion's paw. I was so determined that summer before my mother got sick.
Love this line, "There was a brief stone path for the conventional but really all you had to do was part those grasses with both hands, and have at it" Oh, there is such a beautiful sensory imagining in those words! Now, I am missing the beach, too.
ReplyDeleteThis is lovely!
ReplyDeleteOh my gosh, this feels like the openig of a novel. I think because you tell us such compelling clues- your uncle was still talking with your father, and it ws the summer before your mother got sick. Do you intend to continue writing from this point? I feel as if you have opened a box of memory and just started to look inside.
ReplyDeleteThis is a novel you need to write! I wanted to read more. I wanted to be there with you, parting the grasses to take I the beach.
ReplyDeleteSo very beautiful. ❤️❤️❤️
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