on the sand

Tiny pink shells like butterfly wings on the sand,
barnacle encrusted oyster,
indigo and mauve mussel,
thick cupped, heavy ridged, speckled and freckled,
and here and there, shells the color of polished horse hoof,
shades of varnished brown.

adventurous times

A world of wonders is beneath your feet.
An entire civilization lies hidden.
When you walk a sandy stretch of beach they are all around you.
Sometimes you can hear them.
A hissing sound as you walk over the hard, wet, gray sand.
Sometimes a stream of water shoots up and marks a spot, like an x on a treasure map.
Dig here.
All you need to do is look down.
Down at your feet and as far as eye can see.
Under every hole in the sand are clams, clams, clams; Manila, Littleneck, Butter, Razor, and the giant Geoduck.
It's fun to dig for clams.
To pounce on a waterspout, and scoop up the sand until your fingers close upon the prize.
Geoducks are the most fun of all though.
Their siphons are often just at the surface.
Clam lips.
It can be a foot or more to where the giant clam lies smugly safe.
But mollusks are nobodies fool.
They feel the sand being thrust aside and retreat in a rush of water.
Sand is heavy and filled with broken fragments of shell.
Digging by hand can be perilous.
It's a sport of fools apparently.
Spurred on as I was by a reckless desire to show my grandchildren a giant clam, I plunged my hands into an ever deepening hole in the sand.
I could tell right away that the cut was deep.
By the time I pulled my hand to the surface, up through the slurry of sand, blood was everywhere.
I held my hand aloft and stared in amazement as red flowed down my finger and hand and began to drip onto the sand.
Good grief.
I was a bio-hazard.
You never have a hankie when you need one.
Have you noticed that?
I didn't have anything I could wrap around the cut, so I pressed on it with my thumb as we hastened towards shore.
It was low tide and we were at the waterline.
Of course.
A clean bottle of water was sacrificed and a kleenex pressed into service.
Then back to the beach we went.
The children and I disrupted the eco-system by feeding pretzels to the seagulls.
We gamboled and rambled and roamed and roiled.
Then raced for the truck and the parking meter.
We arrived breathless with two minutes to spare.
Adventurous times.

into summer

There it was, its wings white against the dark wet sand.
A small butterfly.
Somehow it had fallen and now had wings heavy with water.
I bent and placed my finger against feet waving in the air.
They instantly grasped hold and the little butterfly was soon upright on my hand, opening and closing gossamer wings in the afternoon sunshine.
I do think time stands still.
Just for a moment I think it did.
I can still see those wings so delicately patterned.
Feel the grip of tiny feet.
The breeze always blows at the beach and my granddaughter's hair was being styled by the wind.
I transferred the little feet gripping my finger to my blouse to free my hands so I could corral her hair into an elastic.
When I was finished, I remembered the little butterfly but it had caught a friendly current and sailed away into summer.

fiesta

We've been taking a run at summer, my grandchildren and I.
Who will drop first?

"What should we do today?" I asked my grandchildren. "The pool? The beach? The park?
"I'd like to have a fiesta," my granddaughter stated, as quick as a wink.
"She means, siesta, Grandma," her brother explained.

amazingly

It seems like only yesterday that they were babies and now they have flown the coop.
Really.
They have.
Our family of robins has taken the leap.
When my grandson knelt on the deck, his forehead pressed to the boards, his eyes peering into the shadows below, he confirmed what we had suspected.
A whole lifetime in robin years had flashed by.

Here is the timeline:
Amazingly beautiful eggs appear.
Mother incubates them endlessly.
This takes two weeks.
Amazingly homely babies hatch.
Mother feeds them endlessly.
This takes two weeks.
Amazingly grown up looking young leap from the nest.
Mother coaches them endlessly.
This takes two weeks.
Worm population drops dramatically in yard.
Ta da.
Full grown robins.

mixed blessing

I like sunshine.
And I like summer.
I like splashing about in water and hearing the drone of distant lawnmowers.
I like summer gardens, vegetables magically doubling in size over night.
I like wearing skirts and fluttery calico blouses.
I like it all.
All except the heat.
All except the blazing, scorching, parching, wilting heat.
A glass of something cold might save my life.
A cup, dripping with condensed refreshment.
A walk in the dappled light, down over the pebbled shore into the icy water of a creek.
Or maybe watermelon crisply cold, or blueberries.
There are plenty of chances to feel the joy of relief.

Just give me the sound of wind chimes, floating in an open window on the wings of eventide.
A scarlet sunset over silver water.
Sun drunk bees in the roses.
Summer is a mixed blessing.

poor elvis

I flicked on the radio, my eyes on the traffic light.
Elvis was in full cry.
He sang about being caught in a trap and at first, I felt kind of sorry for him. By the third chorus my sympathies had dried up like a hot August afternoon.
Suspicious Minds has a nice be-boppy rhythm that is surprising happy sounding considering the lyrics. I did consider the lyrics though, and decided that blazing heat and heavy traffic were enough all by themselves to give me a bluesy feeling without Elvis.
The miles flashed by.
The air-conditioner did what it could and I soon stumbled up the stairs of home.
A fan, a cold drink and supper fresh and summery were there.
And company blithe and bonnie.
Poor Elvis.