My sister-by-different-parents-best-friend, Gail’s father
recently passed away and with his leaving came the realization that every adult
I knew as a kid is now gone. What a strange feeling. We are truly the adults
now and into our crone years. I’m not even sure how to describe it; definitely
a door closed on the past, but there’s also an emptiness.
I’ve been thinking about childhood and wanting to go back to
rediscover things I’d forgotten as a part of learning to let go and live wholeheartedly.
With Gail’s dad’s passing, this felt like a great opportunity to explore,
discover, and really say goodbye to the past.
And who better to share this experience with but Gail! We
talked it over and rented an Airbnb at Hampton Beach. We only live about a
couple hours apart, but we seldom see each other these days. We looked forward
to spending time together, telling old stories, and visiting our old homes. It’s
one thing to discuss the past, but to actually visit the old homesteads would add
another dimension to the adventure.
We met on an early June afternoon. The day was sunny, but
the wind made it a little chilly. We settled into our cute little apartment and
after lunch in Seabrook, we returned to Hampton Beach for a little souvenir
shopping and ocean watching. Later we changed into our night clothes, relaxed
on the two couches planning the next day’s trip, and talking about life.
The next morning, we were up in time for the sunrise. I
trudged quietly behind Gail, feet sinking into the soft sand, my head bent
watching for trip hazards. We followed the narrow path up a tall sand dune, a
dark orange glowing over the tops of the waving dune grasses. The path opened into
a sandy hollow at a crossroad between the taller tops of the dunes with other
paths, one from another road and two towards the beach.
The sun, now a glorious brilliant yellow surrounded by shades
of orange streaks with blue-gray sky higher above greeted us. The huge round ball
sat on the horizon above the Isles of Shoals. We stood mesmerized, then took
photos.
I pulled my eyes away from the sun. It was nearing low tide
creating a huge, wide expanse of beach which stretched lengthwise towards Boar’s
Head to the left and the jetty to the right. The entire horizon on either side
of the sun was topped with orange, darker along the horizon itself and lighter
above looking to the north and in softer shades to the south.
Do we take the straight across path which would take us
toward the main part of Hampton Beach or the right path towards the jetty? Me,
I chose rocks over the more developed, commercial areas, and we made our way
down a steep incline between the dunes. The wind was still blowing, but not
quite as bad as the day before. Still, we had to keep pulling hair away from
our eyes. Wow, I forgot how much I loved walking the beach at sunrise!
The jetty looked so far away and I’m not good at walking
these days. I wasn’t sure I could make it. We chose to walk the high tide mark.
I took my time and picked up rocks to make a rock garden back home. Little
plovers ran along the beach in front of us and the seagulls looked huge compared
to the small birds.
Sometimes we’d make comments to each other, but mostly we
walked in silence, each lost in our own musings. And all the while, the waves
crashed onto the shore and rolled up the sand in a soothing, rhythmic, deep
whhoooshh.
My wanderings slowed as I not only stuffed my pockets with interesting
rocks, but I let myself get caught up in patterns in the sand made by the
outgoing tide. I took way too many photos, but I can’t help it. It didn’t take
much to catch my attention. I finally made it to the jetty and was rewarded by
finding three sand dollars.
With my pockets heavy, it was even harder walking in the
soft sand back up over the sand dune on the return. We rested up a bit and chatted
about the next part of our trip down memory lane – a visit to Salisbury Beach
Reservation, Salisbury, Mass., where my mum spent the early years of her life
on the banks of the Merrimack River.
What memories and emotions will stir? Stay tuned.
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