My children aren’t regular beach goers. We live in the middle of the United States and it is mostly cold anyway. Last year’s family vacation was the first time they had ever seen the ocean and they loved it. As we were preparing for our trip, Littles unequivocally stated that she was only going to the beach for the sand and would not be going in the water. (Trust me there was no discussion of shark attacks to induce the comment. If there had been, she would have refused to go on vacation.) Thinking back to last year she didn’t really like the water and spent most of her time in the sand — playing, building, creating.
I’m tightly wound. It’s a fact. I’m not sure if it is my wish or expectation that when I go on vacation that fact magically changes and I’m able to immediately unwind. It doesn’t work that way.
Standing at my gate ready to board my flight, I panicked looking for my suit case. I turned in a slow circle as little black suit cases stared back at me. None of them were mine. I knew I had my bag when I went through TSA. Where would I have left it? My heart raced. My breath became shallow. Sweat was seeping out all of my pores.
To Grandmother’s House we go. Literally. We slipped out of our dark, quiet home before dawn broke and have watched the sun come up driving out of the city to the countryside. The roads are in a good shape, in spite of the snow a couple of days ago. What is miraculous is the snow is still stuck to the branches of the trees. The Earth appears dusted with a layer of powdered sugar like a funnel cake at the fair. Just enough, but not too much. Continue reading