My Mother would tell me that the best month to be at the Jersey shore was September. You have to understand… my Mother didn’t favour crowds. After Labor Day, the “summer folks” (the rentals) departed the beach communities and retreated to Wilmington, Philadelphia and points beyond… leaving the beaches and still warm ocean to the owners and the year ’round residents.
Mom would say to me, “My Papa, your ‘Poppy’ who passed before you were three, said that the sun was richer in September… that the sky shed the white of humid July and August days and turned a breathtaking blue. A blue that you could only equal on a crisp clear February morning.”
I think of what I miss. And what you miss falls into two trays. That which you know and remember… like the pumpkin pie that your Mother made on Thanksgiving. And that which you don’t know — or that you don’t know enough… like your Poppy who passed before you were three.
Poppy and Nana were special folks… and they were a bit unique in living in Connecticut; but owning a cottage in the lower Jersey shore. “Your Poppy loved the ocean,” I was told. “Long Island Sound didn’t ‘do the job’… he needed a further horizon… and waves. But it was the far horizon, no hint of land. Something that would give space to his ideas… to his dreams.”
I come now. Dunes protecting the beach just as I remember. The grains of sand and strands of sea grass holding memories of warm sun, cold drinks and the sound of surf breaking on to the shore.
I think of those who are no longer here… folks who used to be here. Here to see the moving water and the distant horizon. But maybe they are still here… in this piece of sea glass, or this sea shell shard?
That’s the beauty of the beach. The beauty of the ocean. It holds memory, yet at every instant its appearance changes. Happiness and tears come and go… but still, its beauty remains. That’s its treasure. “Its beauty remains.” Those aren’t my words… those are the words of my Poppy. My Poppy in Avalon.