Where did the week go?

So we’re back from the shore. The sand is already vacuumed from the car – a land-speed record for us. I usually drive around for at least a week with my sandals nostalgically grinding over my transplanted portion of First Encounter Beach.

          Of course we had a great time. About the only way to have a bad time at the beach is a trifecta of illness, rain, and kids under the age of eight. We’re old and healthy and our youngest is forty-two, so there you are. 

       

   We braved the signs at Fort Hill for a stroll on their paths,

 

 toured Nauset Light, 

and embraced the magic of a sunset that occurred at the lowest point of low tide.

 We also packed in lots of time with grandchildren, daughter and son-in-law, and an evening with son and newly minted daughter-in-law. We even spent a whole afternoon at the beach without souvenir burns the next day. A thoroughly satisfactory trip.

          It was a little difficult to leave.

Oh yeah, sure, we’ll miss shuffling on the sand – but then we remembered we now have a place in Florida.

          And I’ll miss the world where if your t-shirt is clean and your shorts aren’t ripped, you’re basically dressed for any venue. Oh, wait – never mind – Florida.

          Ocean breezes, check.

          Seafood, check. 

          No, it was difficult to leave. It’s the whole mandatory Out of the house Saturday morning by 10 thing. Saturday mornings makes you ask “How did Longfellow’s Arabs ‘pack their tents and silently steal away’?”

          Will those nectarines make it back in eatable form?

          Do we save the ¼ jar of jelly?

          Does beer really suffer by being chilled, then un-chilled, then chilled again?

          Are we bad people if we just throw away the recyclables?

          How could the purchase of two sweatshirts, a baseball cap, and a two tumblers imprinted with the shape of Cape Cod cause the level of belongings in the car to reach above the rear-view mirror?

          Fortunately, after we moved one of the child-consuming sprung couches, we learned what others in the house before us have been up to. In past years, I’ve diligently followed the instructions to “broom sweep” the floors, not the easiest of jobs when the husbandly unit is tramping in and out loading the car.

          This year, with the clock ticking, I followed a different cleaning model and shamelessly swept the sand under the couch, where it joined the product of renters from June and July.