M is for Monday

For this Monday. Today. A daily siren sounds at noon at Stinson Beach. I was there today when it blasted, with my daughter and the dog.  No school today – optional parent teacher conferences – we opted no and made it a beach day. An hour later we were home and I learned of the horror at the Boston Marathon. The first explosion happened at the same time the beach siren went off. I am so grateful for this day with my daughter and send healing thoughts to all in Boston and to those who were victimized by this violence.  I am shielding myself and daughter from all visual coverage.

My son and I spent last weekend touring the campus and local beach scene in Santa Cruz. He plans to start college there in the fall,  needed to check it out the living conditions.

Now, Monday, laundry and dirty dishes and snowdrifts of dog hair have gathered in their favorite spots.  Food-like things crunch underfoot as I walk by the piles in the kitchen and reach for the leash, sending our 13 year old Aussi-Border collie  into a complete Bieber fever spaz attack complete with sneezing. If she could bounce on her hind legs and clap, she would.

It is windy and chilly but I am seriously scoring in the sand dollar hunt. The dog is going nuts, hunting eviscerated crabs and chasing anything thrown. My daughter is walking behind me, head down in a hardback library book, fighting the wind to turn the page. She observes with all the wisdom of a twelve year old. ‘You know what the greatest thing is about Robert Downy Jr., besides everything?’ then goes on to tell me some antidote from an Avengers fan page.

Prepping my second son for the launch pad has me slowing down with my daughter.  The time between seventh grade and the end of senior year is a much faster five years than from kindergarten to fourth grade. So this day belongs to the beach, sand dollars, a half and half soft serve cone at the Parkside, and a screening of Mean Girls when we get home. The dog hair, crumbs, laundry unreturned emails and unscheduled blah blah can keep. 

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B is for Beach

I grew up in the desert, so I am never able to go to the beach without being in complete awe.  For twenty years now I have lived within a 20 minute drive of the beach, and each time I go I can’t believe how I’ve taken it for granted.  The waves never stop. I go about my week, or maybe two, before I go back and the waves have never stopped.

I like a fairly deserted weekday beach, with some fog.  I like a beach that requires fleece.  Tropical sunburn bikini beaches are just for wimps.  If I had the opportunity to hang out in Maui I would, but I really like the Marin beaches just fine.  Body surfing in San Diego is fun but if your feet don’t get a bit numb, it just isn’t the same. 

I collect sand dollars and sea glass, throw sticks for the dog,  find weird dead or rusted things at low tide. Mostly I appreciate that  it’s always there.  All that churning salt water and briny wind is cleansing.

I found myself drawn to the beach the morning of 9/11.  Just sat on a log and watched the ocean do its thing.  Last December I took my dog to the beach threw sticks and a found ball for most of an hour, then sat on the log while I waited to hear the outcome of my son’s arraignment in Seattle.  I let the beach remind me that I’m not in control. 

The waves never stop. The hiss and roar have been continual, since before any of us and will keep rolling long after us.  Oblivious of us.  When we are gone the sand dollars and sea glass will just pile up.  

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