Would someone kill the rooster, please?

I was given an unexpected gift this morning.  For some strange reason, my body left its own wakeup call for 5am, instead of waking with the alarm at 6am.  As I lay there, wrapped in untucked sheets and comforter, I thought I could just ease myself back to sleep.  It seemed like a simple thing.  I knew that I would be one of the walking undead for rising too soon. But, noooo!  The brain wanted to get up and the body had to follow.  So I decided on an alternate plan.  Just lay in bed and daydream.  As I was enjoying the warmth and coziness, I heard a sound that gave me a contented feeling.  I had left the window above the head of the bed open overnight, to allow for the cool breeze to drift in my bedroom (which is also my living room).  Along with the breeze came the far-off cry of seagulls that had wandered in from the harbor.  I believe they were drawn by the smell of dinner, in the form of that morning’s trash pickup.  They are nasty scavengers that don’t pick up after themselves, ripping open plastic trash bags, in search of scraps intended for a compost pile.  I see the remants of their picking along the street as I walk to work in the morning.

But, despite their reputations as “sea rats”, I like the sound of gulls.  It’s easy to imagine waking up on an island, the sounds of gentle waves mixing with the cry of the gull. It is more pleasurable to hear them from a distance.  The calls are gentler and lose the screetching quality that puts off some folk.  It’s a relaxing sound, better than any sound machine to put you to sleep. 

It’s that simple sound that brought me pleasure.  I could close my eyes and think about days at the shore, digging in the sand.  Making holes, not sand castles.  The ones big enough to bury someone up to their neck.  I would think about watching the gulls drifting on the cool ocean breeze at sunset, slowly gliding and going nowhere in particular.  I remembered walking at low tide and skimming flat stones, trying to get them to skip more the 4 or 5 times.  The simple act of searching for sea glass and shells. looking for the big clam shells we could use as a soap dish.

I have lived in New England all my life and have been blessed with the gifts of the beach and the ocean.  I can’t imagine growing up in Kansas or Nebraska, far from the sound of seagulls and smell of seaweed at low tide.  I know Kansas and Nebraska offer their own unique experience.  It’s just not the New England shore.  I can’t imagine living my life and be denied the pleasures of the shoreline.

I have re-discovered these simple pleasures with the arrival of warm summer weather.  I took my lawn chair, a book and a cold drink with me to the beach.  I’d read a little, do some people watching, read some more, maybe walk in the water for awhile.  But it was a nice, relaxing way to spend the afternoon.

I really pull some great energy from the sea.  It’s as if the salty water of my body cries out to reconnect with the ocean.  I am rejuvinated when I step onto the sand, my feet covered.  It’s hard to step in loose sand, you can never push off because the sand is so loose, it shifts as you step.  My mind can easily drift back to childhood and carrying a pail and shovel for digging. 

One beach I remember was on the Connecticut coast, a state park.  There was a tunnel that led from the parking lot to the beach.  My sisters and I would yell to each other, trying to get an echo.   Above the tunnel was a wooden railroad bridge,  for the  commuter line that ran between New York and Providence, RI, then up to Boston.  The train would usually run in each direction once during our visit to the beach.  We’d get the midday train from Manhattan and the afternoon commuter run down from Boston or Providence.  Whenever the engineer would blow the whistle to signal the train’s arrival and passing,  a mass exodus of kids would run for the tunnel, a youthful rush of adrenaline.  That tunnel would be crammed with kids, waiting for the train to pass overhead.  They would yell and scream with delight, their voices echoing as the train passed overhead, creating  a magical energy.  After the train passed, they returned to the cool ocean water, to their blankets and sandcastles, or maybe their transistor radios playing the latest summertime hits.

There was also a great pavilion perched on a knoll above the beach.  It was an impressive building with a fieldstone facade that could be seen all up and down the beach.  It could have been a WPA project or part of some beach resort.  The building housed the snack bar, with a wide veranda with long picnic tables where you could enjoy your food and watch the ocean.  I remember saving up spare change so I could buy french fries and a grape soda.  I felt so grown up going there and placing my order by myself.  I may have been alone in the snack bar, but my sister joined me.  Mom didn’t want us there alone, even though this was back before abductons and child molesters. 

It wouldn’t suprise me if I discovered  that the building housed a ballroom at one time.  There were several large rooms with seating for 300 or more people.  I could imagine Benny Goodman, Count Basie or Duke Ellington swinging the night away,  their fans dancing into an ecstatic frenzy.  It was a popular pasttime to drive down to the shore, spend the day at the arcade or on the beach, maybe enjoy some french fries, and spend the evening dancing to a popular band.  It seems quaint and anachronistic to think about those simple times with simple, but satisfying, entertainment. 

Sometimes I wonder if those really were the good old days.