Calling from the kitchen, my mother said, “Make your beds and put on your bathing suits” to my sister and me, eight and eleven. She was making tuna fish sandwiches and putting orange juice into a big, round thermos with a spigot.
The laundry was hung out, and our ‘53 green and black Oldsmobile had the trunk open for towels.
My parents went to Cranes Beach in Ipswich when I was two—a wild beach of white sand, beach grass over dunes, and a long water’s edge.
My mother from Maine and my dad from New York City loved this beach. She tanned; he sunburned. Our bodies shiny with suntan lotion, we played in waves, pushed sand with shovels and buckets, lay on our towels, and ate.
Through childhood and teenage years I felt this North Atlantic beach was mine.
After Stephen, my second husband, had passed over, never having driven more than two hours, I found strength to drive from Florida to New England to be with family. I stopped at one highway restaurant, where, getting out of the car, I faced a strikingly dismal arrangement of land, building, trash cans, curb sides, and unattractive grass and bushes. I found nothing welcoming to look at, and alone, with miles to go, felt an emptiness of mild depression.
Casting my gaze about, I looked up at a sky not clear and blue, but slightly overcast, yet found it a softly welcoming expanse that calmed me—meeting my need for comfort.
My realization is, “We hold memories of nature and structures that have affected our sensibilities. When we lack a kindness of view, by looking up, we may discover a scene of grace.