Every year for the first eight years of my life we vacationed on Cape Cod.
We rented the same cottage in the same small town. I have sketchy memories of those vacations.
I remember the summer it rained so much it turned the basement into a swimming pool.
I remember my father digging a hole in the sand on the beach to make a bar-b-que pit to cook hamburgers.
I remember dancing around that fire pretending to be an Indian doing a war dance.
I remember the crunch of the sand in those burgers.
I remember running down the sandy road after the Good Humor man.
I remember my parents and their friends eating peanut butter and onion sandwiches and drinking martinis.
I remember the time we got locked out of the house and my parents shoved me through the bedroom window because I was the only one small enough to fit.
I remember my father’s ‘friend’ (wink wink, nudge nudge) who came to visit. How her car caught on fire in the parking lot of the fried clam restaurant and how her small yappy lap dog ran away from the confusion. (I give my mother much credit for how graciously she handled that situation and welcomed the woman. Of course I didn’t understand any of this until I was much older.)
I remember all of these things.
But I don’t have one clear memory of spending time on the beach (other than the 'hamburger' incident, lol) or playing in the water……….
Me and BigBro in the cottage on the Cape.