Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Page 2

  My husband and I have gone on to walk other seashores, and form other love affairs with beaches around the world, but like one’s first love affair, we have never forgotten our first: Daytona Beach.

  Betty King

  My Two Loves

  “Gonna be another hot one today,” I complained to my husband.

  “Yeah, those Santa Ana winds are really blowin’.”

  I hated these “devil winds,” as they are called by local Southern Californians. They made people cranky and forest fires rage, not to mention drying out my skin and hair, and making me an irritable mess. I also feel cheated. Just when I should be pulling my sweaters out of mothballs and watching the trees change into their fall dresses, here I am dealing with hot, dry, itchy weather.

  “Maybe tonight we can head down to the pier,” my husband, Paul, yelled as he ran out the door to work.

  “Ah, relief will come,” I said to no one in particular, although the dog did lift his head off the floor long enough to sigh. I had forgotten the one perk of this season: going to the beach in autumn. That was always our one salvation from the oppressive heat of the dry desert winds.

  As promised, Paul made it home on time, and after a light dinner, we drove the four miles to the ocean.

  For some reason, the beach never failed to thrill and entice me. You’d think since I was raised a Southern California beach girl, I would be used to its charms by now. But no, the ocean at night, the waves crashing on the shore, the moon glistening off its surface, always seemed magical and mysterious.

  And so, on this balmy fall evening, Paul and I linked arms and joined the mass of humanity looking for a spot on the pier to cool off. We passed families fishing together, lovers embracing, the single person staring out to sea, and couples laughing, just out for a stroll. One thing was certain— in their own way they were all enjoying the ocean’s gifts, such as the cool breeze, the salty spray, and an inner calm beyond description.

  Below us, surfers rode the waves, children tried to outrace the foaming tide, and others dug for either clams or buried treasure. Who knew?

  “It’s too crowded up here,” Paul called over the gull’s cries and the squeals of the children. “Let’s go down on the sand.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  As we descended the steps to the sandy bottom, thoughts flashed through my brain. I remembered years long past when Paul and I cuddled around a beach fire-pit, lingering kisses on a beach blanket while the waves lapped the shore, and how we gazed into each other’s eyes over the fire.

  “Hey, a penny for your thoughts. You look a hundred miles away,” Paul asked.

  “Oh, I just realized how much the beach has played a part in our love life.”

  “Well, let’s not stop now,” Paul said, taking me in his arms.

  As we kissed I shut my eyes and felt the breeze caress my shoulders, the hot “devil winds” long forgotten. I knew right then I was in the arms of my two loves—my husband and the beach.

  Sallie A. Rodman

  Did You Turn on the Water?

  “Did you turn on the water?” he asked.

  “Yep, it’s on,” I answered. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Hmmm, maybe. Let’s see.”

  We sat up, peered over the headboard, and separated the blinds to gaze at the shallow waves softly lapping at the shore. We smiled. And so our day began.

  We were newlyweds living in a house on the sands of Pensacola Beach. It was a dreamy place to begin married life—even if it was only forty-five degrees outside. The Florida panhandle’s weather was more like lower Alabama than Florida, and only the hardy or young-and-broke couples braved the storms, the chill, the lack of insulation, and small space-heaters to live “romantically” on the beach during the winter. In spring, people flocked to the white-sugar sand and clear blue and turquoise water, but until then we had it to ourselves.

  It was the beginning of a life near the water. Although we had not been raised near the sea, my husband’s career as a navy pilot led us to ports in Corpus Christi, San Diego, even the Sea of Japan. We discovered strength as a couple from the ocean, the constant waves, the changing moods of the sea.

  The joys of beachcombing, long walks in the ebbing surf, finding shell treasures as they wash up to shore, picnics on the sand, and watching the sun disappear below the horizon fill us with quiet peace and pleasure.

  In times of crisis, we also long for the beach, where we ponder its majesty and power, reminded that we are only like small grains of sand as we watch the waves spilling onto shore and continuing on and on. The wonder of God’s power calms and soothes us, enabling us to deal with whatever crisis life deals us.

  When our young daughter fell fromand was trampled by a horse, we sat in the hospital at midnight during her emergency surgery. Frightened, we struggled to focus on happy times, including memories of sun-swept days at the beach as our little girls frolicked in the surf. Within a few months, we were able to renew those moments; they romped in the breaking waves while we searched for seashells.

  When my father-in-law suffered a stroke, we walked miles on the beach as we grappled with how to best care for him. Later, bringing him to the boardwalk to look at the expanse of ocean and shore gave him a sense of contentment for a time. My husband commented, “You can be a beach lover without getting sand between your toes.”

  Last year, for our forty-fifth anniversary, our children gave us a night at the most luxurious beach hotel in Southern California. Upon waking the next morning I heard that familiar question:

  “Did you turn on the water?”

  “I think so. Let’s go look.”

  And hand in hand we went through the French doors to the balcony, where the Pacific Ocean lay before us, waves lapping at the shore, and we once again were filled with that familiar hope. We smiled.

  Jean Stewart

  Mr. Crescenti’s Beach

  Age does not make us childish, as some say; it finds us true children.

  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  I was born and raised in New York City. My parents met, married, and moved into a large apartment building with a view of the East River. Dad had been a lifeguard at majestic Jones Beach on Long Island during his teenage years. Mother had developed a love of the beach as her parents owned a summer home directly by the Atlantic Ocean. They decided to pass this mutual passion on to their only daughter. Thus, at an early age, I was taught to swim and enjoy the feeling of sand between my toes.

  When I was seven years of age my parents bought a small summer cottage on the eastern end of Long Island. We began to spend the summer here, embracing the joy of being beach aficionados. I loved these times and had many adventures walking the beach, swimming in the surf, digging in the sand, and just watching the waves hit the shore.

  Each year, the day after Labor Day, the car was packed and we would begin our journey home to the city. Riding back I would write down all the memorable events of the summer and save them to read at future dates.

  Once we were home, school beckoned, my friends surrounded me, and life became the norm of daily routine.

  But the beach was still part of me. I slept under a blanket adorned with the prints of colorful shells. All the summer photos were taped to my bedroom wall. The seashells that I had collected were displayed on my dresser. Cold weather surrounded me, but the memories of the beach kept me warm.

  The years passed quickly, and I married and became the proud mother of two wonderful daughters. We lived five blocks from my parents on the same city street. I taught at the neighborhood school that I had attended as a child. My mother said that I went into teaching so that I could spend the summer at the beach. And we all did—together, as a family, in the same beach cottage that I knew as a child. Dad had added two bedrooms and a large family room to the once-small residence so that we could all enjoy the beach together. He also loved inviting the neighbors to visit as much and as often as possible. I never remember a time when the house wasn’t bursting at the sea
ms with people. Laughter filled the air, and food passed hands in all directions.

  My daughters loved that so many of their friends could visit with them during the summer. At night the adults would sit on the beach and swap stories, enjoying the smell of the salt air and the gentle breeze off the ocean. The children always found something to do, usually ending with a marshmallow roast before bedtime.

  My youngest daughter, Donna, always loved to cuddle on my lap at night and listen to the adults’ stories. She listened intently, resting her head on my shoulder, entwining her long fingers within mine. I loved these times, so simple, yet so memorable.

  They say that history repeats itself, and so the day after Labor Day the girls were packed into the car and headed back to the city. Their summer snapshots were stuck to their bedroom wall and their seashells placed on the dresser. The school bell rang, and summer was over.

  Each day the girls and I would visit my parents after school. Mom would set milk and cookies on the table, and the girls would swap stories until my father left for work. They would then walk my parents’ dog before we left for our apartment. Invariably they would return from the walk with goodies from one of the neighbors. They knew all fifty families that lived in the building, and were always doing errands for one family or another.

  Donna, who was now eight years of age, had a standing order to deliver a loaf of Italian bread to an older couple that lived on the same floor as my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Crescenti lived in a very small one-bedroom apartment at the back of the building. They had emigrated from Italy after their only daughter died at the tender age of five. Mr. Crescenti had always been my favorite neighbor during my childhood. A short stocky man, he lived life with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye—and had the longest mustache that I had ever seen on a man. When he laughed the ends moved up and down.

  I would bring the morning paper to the couple before I went to school. I always received a homemade cookie for my effort, which I devoured on my walk to school. I liked to visit with the couple and hear their stories about the “old country.” Their apartment was filled with photos of their daughter, Angelina. She was a bright-eyed youngster with dark curls, a sweet smile, and chubby cheeks. Sadly, she died after coming down with a high fever of no apparent origin. The Crescentis’ small seaside village provided no doctor, and by the time one did arrive from the city, it was too late. Mrs. Crescenti went into a deep depression from which she really never recovered. Mr. Crescenti dealt with the loss by moving them to the United States. He was a shoemaker by trade, and he opened a small store on the street below my apartment building. I called him “Boom-Boom” when I was a child and it stuck. He did not talk about his daughter during my childhood, but appeared to have no problem discussing her with my daughter Donna.

  Donna had taken over my job, delivering the couple’s loaf of daily bread. Mrs. Crescenti had become an invalid and never left the apartment. Mr. Crescenti sold the store and spent his days caring for his wife, keeping their small apartment spotless, and cooking—always cooking. As you exited the elevator the wonderful aroma of some simmering dish would fill your nostrils. The apartment door was always open, and one could hear Mr. Crescenti singing in Italian as he prepared dinner. Donna would deliver their bread and then walk the family dog with her sister, Tracey.

  One afternoon she did not return from the Crescentis’, and I guessed that a batch of cookies had lured her away. After an hour it was time for us to start for home so I knocked on the Crescentis’ open door.

  “Come-a in,” Mr. Crescenti shouted. I found the three of them in the living room. Donna was perched on Mrs. Crescenti’s lap gazing at an old leather-bound photo album. She stroked Donna’s hair as she pointed out the pictures to her. “This was my Angelina when she was two-a years old—she look just-a like you, Donna.” I held my breath. It was the first time I had seen Mrs. Crescenti smile in years. I let Donna stay with the Crescentis’ that night. She slept on their sofa and spent the weekend listening to all the stories about Angelina. Donna continued her visits for about a year, until Mrs. Crescenti passed away peacefully in her sleep.

  That summer my parents invited Mr. Crescenti to stay with us at the beach. He was elated. He spent hours walking the beach, telling the girls stories about his village in Italy. His childhood fascinated my Donna; she couldn’t get enough of his stories. He played in the sand with her, helped her build sand castles, and walked the beach with her constantly. They walked hand in hand, digging their toes in the sand, watching the gulls overhead, and laughing— always laughing. Staying with us that summer allowed him to embrace his grief and find some peace for the future. He returned to the city and started to work part-time for the young man who had bought his store. All went well for a few years, and then Mr. Crescenti suffered a stroke. We were all devastated. He had no family, other then a few cousins back in Italy, and my parents became his caregivers. The residents of the building assisted as much as possible, and Donna continued her bread run for the dear man. She would slice the bread and put it alongside the dinner plate that my mother had prepared for him each night. Donna would stay and tell him about her day at school while he ate. He always asked that she tell him a beach story before she left for home.

  That summer, as we left for the beach, Donna appeared sad. She knew that Mr. Crescenti would be well cared for by all the neighbors during the family vacation. Still, Donna called him each night and described how the beach looked and how the sand felt between her toes. Her devotion brought tears to my eyes.

  One afternoon we watched as she dragged a large plastic bin from the garage to the beach. She would sift sand each day with an old kitchen colander. She collected what she called “special seashells” and put them in a lined shoe box. We never asked what she was doing; we knew she was on a mission by the look on her face.

  The bin returned to the city with us that year. We helped her carry it into Mr. Crescenti’s apartment. We lifted the old man’s feet into the sand. Donna arranged all the shells on the sand and got out our summer photographs. We all sat on the sofa as she told him all about her summer. “Dig your toes into the sand, Mr. Crescenti,” she said. “It’s the same sand that I walked in all summer long.” He smiled and did as she asked, while a tear ran down his face. She showed him each shell, and he listened with great joy. Donna did this for the next six months, every day, seven days a week. She missed her playtime, movies, birthday parties, and many other events. It didn’t appear to matter to her. Each day she would pull out the bin, now called “Mr. Crescenti’s beach,” and place his feet in the sand. They would talk and laugh for hours together.

  Mr. Crescenti passed away, as did his wife, in his sleep. His ashes were sent back to Italy for internment with his beloved wife and daughter.

  Donna appeared lost, a part of her life gone. Mom and Dad, along with many of the neighbors, assisted in cleaning out his apartment. Donna retrieved the bin of sand and brought it into my parents’ living room. Here it stood for nearly a week. At the dinner table one night she announced that she had a plan, and we all smiled.

  That Sunday a memorial service was held in the lobby of my parents’ apartment building. Donna delivered a written invitation to each neighbor and requested that all who come bring a jar with them. All fifty families were represented that morning. Donna had pasted all the photos from the old leather-bound photo album on poster board, and they stood in the lobby for all to see. My father and I read a verse from a book of poems about the sea. Cookies from the bakery where the couple purchased their daily bread were delivered to the lobby and enjoyed by all.

  My father introduced Donna and lifted her up on a small table. Slowly she read a letter that she had written the night before:

  Mr. and Mrs. Crescenti lived in this building for a long time. They watched my mom grow up. They were very friendly. Mrs. Crescenti made the best cookies in the world. Mr. Crescenti was a great shoemaker. I love the beach, and he did too. I brought his beach here today because I know it would
make him smile. I think he would like his beach to stay here with all his friends. Please, can you take some sand home in the jar that you brought with you and keep it to remember Mr. Crescenti?

  Not a dry eye could be seen in that lobby.

  Each neighbor scooped up some sand and took a little part of Mr. Crescenti’s beach home with them that day.

  I stood in awe, watching the event, feeling my heart swell with pride at the little girl who had made this all possible.

  As I write I stare at her picture and a little bottle of sand that for me is a message for all times: Life is like sand on a beach. It can blow away if you aren’t careful.

  Yet, like love, it can never truly be destroyed.

  Anne Carter

  Life’s a Beach . . . and Then You Drive

  The surf’s up and it’s finally time to hit the beach! For months, I had pored over so many Coastal Living magazines that I’d practically given myself sunstroke in anticipation.

  I had waded through pages of sun-filled layouts with families happily walking together along the sand. Smiling Coppertone kids beamed over buckets full of perfectly formed seashells and posed in front of Biltmore-sized sand castles that they’d constructed, I imagine, sans parental participation. Moms and dads looked blissfully relaxed in lounge chairs, while their carefree children frolicked in the ocean without a jellyfish or icky floating thing in sight.

  Unfortunately, you won’t find many photos like that in our family album. Faster than you can say “Vamos a la playa,” it’s clear that a day at the beach with my brood isn’t exactly, well, “a day at the beach.”

  After an hour of overpacking the car with a stack of rusty sand chairs, a leaky cooler, countless sand toys, and as many boogie boards and skim boards as Ron Jon’s Surf Shop carries, we look more like the Beverly Hillbillies than the well-heeled beachcombers I’d seen in those glossy periodicals.