The political situation in our country often sends me running from the news. I opt to set my minds on other matters and try not to think about the 2024 presidential race. The possible outcome is terrifying and sickening, and I tend to avert my eyes, at least for the time being.
You know who doesn’t run? Fulton County DA Fani T. Willis. She is the first woman to hold the office. She is a 52-year-old Black woman who has led the two-and-half year investigation into the actions of Trump and 18 others in their efforts to overturn Joe Biden’s 2020 victory in Georgia.
They have all been indicted. Trump verbally attacks Willis and has called her racist. She receives death threats and requires security at her office and home. She orders her employees to ignore Trump’s attack ads and any that will come their way, reminding them that “This is business, it will never be personal.”
This is the kind of person I look to when I’m feeling a lack of courage to face life’s challenges head on.
As I’ve said before, I have never left the beach thinking, “Well, that was enough for today.” I have always left the beach because the people I am with have had enough or I have things to get done or somewhere to be. I always feel a mild sadness when I have to tear myself away, feeling as though I haven’t squeezed enough joy out of sand, sea and air.
I love all the parts of the day at the beach. I love sunrise because it’s so sublime it makes me tear up, realizing how small I am and taking comfort in the fact that we (humans) haven’t totally ruined everything beautiful Earth has offered. I like the morning at the beach when the sun is sparkling off the waves and gulls are dipping for the first catch of the day, before too many people have filled in the open spaces with chairs, toys, umbrellas, coolers, and tents. I like mid-day, when the sun beats down with its full power and forces me into the water to ride waves until I’m ready to bake off the chill again. I relish the late afternoon, when shadows grow long. Noise starts to dissolve into a mild hush as the crowds begin to pack up their supplies and trudge toward the parking lot.
I want to be old at the beach, with a comfortable chair and a book, alternating between dozing, reading, walking, and gazing at the ocean. I would be happy in all seasons, just not rain. I don’t love rain at the beach. Chris and I need to figure out where we can live someday where he can sit in his boat and fish on a smaller body of water, and I can plant myself at the ocean. I feel like a song needs to be written about this. “You on a lake and me at the sea…”
We’re back at Chincoteague for a three-night stay, just the four of us.
The long-standing tradition for the last ten or so years had been to stay at “the brown house” on Deep Hole Road with my side of the family. In the early years of this iteration of our Chincoteauge summer vacation, we crammed the four of us, my sister’s family of four, my parents, and my older sister’s daughter and her husband into this four-ish bedroom home on Oyster Bay. We usually had two dogs with us (and our two baby kittens one summer, smuggled in and hidden in the bedroom).
As the kids have gotten less compact and my niece’s family has grown, we have spread out to two houses, and my younger sister’s husband’s family has begun coming for a second week with them at the brown house. They’ve fallen for Chincoteague, as well.
My parents haven’t come the last few years, and our family has skipped two summers because of big overseas trips. But not next year! We are returning to the brown house; nobody wants it to be a thing of the past.
I will say we have come up in the world as far as our accommodations go on the island. In the very early years, circa 1974-1986, we stayed at the KOA campground in our canvas tent and then our pop-up camper, doused in Off! and sweating as we chased lighting bugs. Then we rented a tiny, run-down house for about seven of us a few times in the late 80’s.
Then came the Chincoteague hiatus, at least for me. With college, moving to Oregon and then to upstate New York, attending grad school, and just life, in general, I grew apart from the island. I opted for the Outer Banks, Bethany, and Rehoboth instead.
When Maxine turned three, I decided it was time to show my young family the island of my childhood. Chris fell in love with the modest small town, the quiet docks, the bike rides to the beach and around the island, the ice cream shop, the trail to the lighthouse, the wild ponies, and crabbing off the dock.
When my sister and her growing family moved back from San Diego, I found a house barely big enough for all of us: Morningsong, the brown house with the lookout for stargazing two flights of stairs above the outside deck.
The three of us who grew up with Chincoteague have passed the love for it onto our spouses and children. The town has grown up a little, with better food options, a few fun shops, and even a small brewery, but the character has remained unchanged. This is not a place for those seeking luxury and beachfront homes.
The secret of Chincoteague is not as well-kept as in the past, but its charm and well-worn character provide a steady comfort through the generations.
We had one last neighborhood celebration for our high school graduates. We blocked off 25th Street, pulled together tents, tables, chairs, and coolers stocked with seltzers and beer, and brought a hodgepodge of pasta salads, pizza and take-out from Chipotle.
This is the main block we’ve been gathering on since our kids were riding tricycles and scooters; skinning knees on sidewalks; jumping off a front porch and spraining an ankle on Easter Sunday (Maxine); shrieking as we set off fireworks; roaming the streets as vampires, superheroes, aliens, and movie characters on Halloween; pulling each other in sleds; and running through sprinklers.
Now this next batch of newly minted high school graduates are on their way to schools in states across the country: Virginia, New Jersey, Colorado, Mississippi, South Carolina, and New York. They have their mountains of clothes, small appliances, mattress toppers, and comfort items stacked in bedrooms and basements. They will begin to peel off from the neighborhood later this week.
I’m already looking forward to seeing them when they’re home for the holidays.
I’m on a quest to find a perfume that is perfect for me. I ran out of my last bottle, which I liked, but it wasn’t the one. Since I am not willing to pay a mixologist to create my own signature scent, I am left spraying various scents up and down my arms, on the little white test strips, and in the air.
I ducked into Sephora and approached the big names first: Gucci, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana. They were either too cloyingly sweet or too old lady money. I chuckled with fondness as I passed the perfumes of my youth: Poison and Chloe. They appeared under the Christmas tree in the mid-80’s, and here they were still alive and well.
I finally ended up looking at a row of bottles called Clean, with scents like “rain,” and “warm cotton.” By that point, all I could smell was alcohol and fruit.
I threw in the towel and asked the clerk to get a bottle of the one I had used last. I was about to get in line when I thought, “No, it’s not perfect,” and turned on my heel and took my heavily perfumed arms home.
My Corner of the Village 