Summer by the Sea

A midsummer morning, I search the summerhouse bookshelves for the short novel "The Country of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. She tells the story of a lone female visitor who arrives at the small coastal town called Dunnet Landing in nineteenth-century Maine, where she finds lodging with the widowed Mrs. Todd, a herbalist. One hundred and forty pages later, we never learn the lady's name. The opening paragraphs of the book capture the joy of anticipation we feel as we begin a summer vacation in a fetching spot. "There was something about the coast town ... which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages ... Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore and dark woods, and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges... When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair." We imagine the view, the perfect place to think, write, paint or simply do nothing at all... "On the brink of the hill stood a little white schoolhouse, much wind-blown and weather-beaten, which was a landmark to seagoing folk; from its door there was a most beautiful view of sea and shore. The summer vacation now prevailed, and after finding the door unfastened, and taking a long look through one of the seaward windows, and reflecting afterward for some time in a shady place among the bayberry bushes, ... I hired the schoolhouse for the rest of the vacation for fifty cents a week." Hear the shutters wobbling back and forth that mimic the wind and waves. Sit at the teacher's desk and see the sheep wander out of a fairytale. "Selfish as it may appear, the retired situation seemed to possess great advantages, and I spent days there quite undisturbed with the sea-breeze blowing through the small high windows and swaying the heavy outside shutters to and fro. I hung my hat and luncheon-basket on an entry nail as if I were a small scholar, but I sat at the teacher's desk as if I was that great authority, with all the timid empty benches in rows before me. Now and then an idle sheep came and stood for a long time looking at the door." Gather with family and friends at the annual reunion. Have a summertime feast, swim, share memories, laugh... "Twas pretty when they sang the hymn, wasn't it?" asked Mrs. Blackett at suppertime, with real enthusiasm... I saw that Mrs. Todd's broad shoulders began to shake. "There was good singers there; yes there was excellent singers," she agreed heartily, putting down her teacup, "but I chanced to drift alongside Mis' Peter Bowden o' Great Bay, an' I couldn't help thinkin' if she was as far out o'town as she was out o'tune, she wouldn't get back in a day." Spend a few hours with a good book by the sea, and embark on a summer odyssey.

Shedding possessions

A few years ago my mother hired a carpenter to tear down the old rusty metal shed that my father had screwed together from a kit decades ago.

It was listing to the side like an old barge and leaked whenever the rain came from a certain direction.

The craftsman built a sturdy new wooden shed with two windows and clad it with gray vinyl siding. He also added a ramp for the riding lawnmower.

The two big white wooden doors swung back and fastened with hooks, offering access in and out all day long.

I remember thinking that it would be difficult to fill this massive space.

Well, fast forward three years later, and it was time to clean out the shed.

The floor was carpeted by several summers’ worth of grass carried in on the blades of the mower.

A hodgepodge of chaise lounges and aluminum chairs were propped up against the walls.

Fishing gear that had been stored on the ample shelves was scattered everywhere:  poles, life preservers, buckets, tackle boxes, spools of fishing line and nets.

Volleyballs, bocce balls, and kids’ bouncing balls of all shapes and sizes rolled across the floor.

A 20-pound bag of potting soil waited near empty flower boxes, and garden tools lined one wall:  shovel, hoe, pitchfork, scythe and rakes.

Unfortunately, there were also lots of uninvited guests: bees, wasps, hornets, ants and an unidentified colony of tiny creatures living under a turquoise tarp that were content to be sheltered from sun and rain.

While my mother snipped at an invasive vine that had wrapped itself around the sea grass fence, I dragged the aforementioned paraphernalia onto the lawn.

Then we swept until the shed was once more in pristine condition.

My husband hung brackets on the walls, and the dozen or more chairs were suspended in air.

Then we sorted and filled too many trash bags with the stuff of summers past.

Hot and dirty, I listened to the incessant waves battering the shore but ignored the siren’s call and worked nonstop until every last item was stored or shelved.

Hot and bothered, I wondered why we had collected so much clutter.

Less is more.

On this beautiful summer’s day, the Creator gave us an abundance of sunshine, soothing winds and a shimmering sea.

All we need.

The flip side of owning a beach house

This self-portrait that my mother painted in oils best describes the quintessential bliss of a summer's day at the beach – blue skies, gentle winds, endless sunshine.

It hangs in the living room of the summer house, and it is the stuff of dreams.

But the tranquility it exhibits belies the calamities that have happened here since my parents bought the land 50 years ago:

One evening around dusk with calm seas, my husband took my brother fishing in his boat. As they trawled, the rope from a lobster pot became entangled around the leg of the motor. Hours later, we called the Coast Guard. We cried and we prayed. After countless attempts diving under the boat with a knife in dark waters, my brother cut them free. The Tiverton Water Police towed them in around midnight.

Our water supply was tainted by Temik, a pesticide used in the potato field abutting our property.

Hurricane Bob tore down the huge maple tree in front of the summer house, missing the structure by a few feet.

A cloudless Sunday afternoon, my brother took my father and son on his sailboat. Out of the blue, a violent thunderstorm forced them to get to land. We called the Coast Guard. We cried and we prayed. Many hours later, they were found and towed in.

I stopped at a bookstore near the summer house and was bitten by a huge rabbit named Eliot, the patron’s pet. I sat on the couch in the beach house while the gash in my leg with telltale teeth marks throbbed. I got a tetanus shot.

Climbing on the roof of the summer house to remove the old antenna, my brother disturbed a bee hive. He climbed down the rungs of the ladder in record speed but not without incurring their wrath with numerous stings on his arms and legs.

Hurricane Irene tore down the huge maple tree in the back yard, missing the shed by a few feet.

My son was cooking on the grill when it malfunctioned. Along with the meat, his eyebrows and arm hair were singed.

My father took my brother's sailboat out on the bay while my mother played with my children on shore. After scouring the coastline for hours, we saw my father floating down the river on the hull of the sailboat. He had pulled up the centerboard, and it flipped. A kind boater towed him to shore.

One whole season we were terrorized by a pesky skunk who took up residence on our property.

My mother helped my father carry the heavy picnic table out of the shed. Inadvertently, he let go of the weight, breaking my mother’s wrist.

In addition, there have been infestations of rodents; countless mosquito, tick and dog bites; wasps in the well house; hornets in the washing machine hose; broken pipes; toilet overflows; ceiling cave-ins; bicycle falls; sunburns; and too many other mishaps to mention.

Yet, despite it all, one of the best things my parents ever did for us was to buy this little piece of land by the sea.

Coming home to the summerhouse

The sunny Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend, we flung open the door of the summerhouse, the simple act culminating six months of dreaming and planning for the new season.

Yet, almost every Saturday morning since we had winterized and closed the house last October, my husband and I had returned to the place.

After a quick stop at Black Goose Café to pick up breakfast – usually a cranberry-orange or blueberry muffin or perhaps a slice of artichoke quiche, as well as cups of tea and black coffee – we drove to the beach.

Parked by a picnic table, our Honda CRV was pelted by sand, wind, snow or rain while we surveyed the changing seascapes, one bite at a time.

Then we drove to the summerhouse, and unless snowdrifts barred our passage, we pulled into the backyard and shut off the engine.

My husband braved the elements, walking the property and checking on his landlocked boat, while I sat in the silence and warmth of the vehicle, marveling at the beauty of God’s creations.

It's good to be home again...

'Be still and know'

Under deep blue skies, I am sitting in the sand at the seashore.

The sun is a torch, but the warm land breeze caresses my skin and keeps my long hair off my face.

Despite the sunscreen I just applied, I wrap an orange beach towel around my legs.

I am undercover – not because of the big straw hat atop my head or the polarized sunglasses I’m wearing.

I am in hiding...

I wish to blend into my surroundings as inconspicuously as the stones, shells and single beach rose a few yards in front of me.

These days it gets increasingly harder to find solitude, yet here I let go of my everyday life and retreat into nature’s calming presence.

The first step is detachment.

The laundry list of things to do begins to fade. The buzz and barrage of bad news reports recede. I forget where I am and where I’ve been.

My senses sharpen...

I begin to hear the music: the pulsing of the sea, the cry of gulls, the sounds of children splashing in the surf, the wind in the sea grass, the beating of my own heart…

Contemplatives teach us how to connect with the Divine:

“Be still and know I am God.”

“Be still and know.”

“Be still.”

“Be.”

'It's so good to be back'

Tightly furled leaves long to burst.

Every summer I reread “The Country of the Pointed Firs” by Sarah Orne Jewett. The first chapter, “The Return,” best explains what it means to return to a much-loved place after an absence. She writes:

“There was something about the coast town … which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages … Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore … and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges… These houses made the most of the seaward view … the small-paned high windows in the peaks of their steep gables were like knowing eyes that watched the harbor and the far sea-line beyond, or looked northward all along the shore … When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair.”

It is the beginning of the long-awaited season at Fogland; and like other summer residents, my pulse quickens as I come home again. The shimmering Sakonnet, the well-kept cottages, and the sleeping summer house – all welcome us. Over and over again, we say to each other, “It’s so good to be back.”

Yet, there is much work to do. The summer house has been in a state of hibernation for nearly six months, and it is time for it to be reawakened.

We call in the plumber who climbs inside the well house and installs a new pump, and like the rhythmic beating of a heart circulating blood through veins, it sends the water coursing through the pipes. One frigid year the pipes burst, and the rooms were flooded. Consequently, we hold our breath until we learn that the old piping has survived another year.

Throughout the winter, we worried about the roof. We remembered what had happened some years ago when the ceiling had fallen into the living room, and we had to hire a carpenter to fix the roof, as well as put up a new ceiling. But this year, outside of some cobwebs, the summer house is intact.

Inside the sticking front door, it feels cold and lifeless. We pull up the shades and open the windows, and let the clean sea breeze stir the dead air. Sunlight bounces off the walls and illuminates the dust. We turn on the hot water and plug in the fridge.

My mother puts fresh linens on the beds, while my father carries in a trunk-full of food.

Outside, my husband mows the knee-high lawn, which always grows fast in this fertile, coastal soil.

Before long the summer house will be filled with shrieks of laughter.

“It’s so good to be back.”

Summer slides into autumn

Dragging my feet, I find myself in the last weekend of summer. In all my memories of summer days spent at the summer house, I cannot recall a season of such perfect weather. It is the stuff of quintessential New England: cool sunny mornings, clear cloudless days with gentle breezes, brilliant rosy sunsets and comfortable evenings.

“Summer slides so gently into autumn … that it is easy to believe there will be no end,” said New England author Gladys Taber. “Day dreams toward twilight, skies are sapphire, the tide ebbs quietly. I begin to think time itself is arrested and the green leaves will stay forever on the trees. Gardens glow with color, with late roses and with carpets of zinnias and asters.”

Even though I am in denial, I detect the winds of change. A tinge of orange colors the maple leaves in the front yard. When I walk to the beach, I bring a sweatshirt. I can count the few fuchsia beach roses that still cling to the bushes.

Yet, despite my reluctance to move on, I admit that September offers a beautiful backdrop to my days. Now there is time to pause and truly admire the Creator’s handiwork.

This is my husband’s favorite fishing season. There is a plentiful supply of scup waiting to bite on clam necks, sandworms and squid; and bluefish race up and down the coast, chasing schools of prey. No bait required – casting or trolling with a lure will hook this silvery fish that can range up to 40 inches in length and weigh up to 20 pounds.

Dashing wildly within the schools of prey, the bluefish bite, cripple and kill the small fish that do not get eaten. Charting the course from above, flocks of seagulls follow the trail and splurge on leftovers.

From my perch on a boulder, I watch the fishermen in their powerboats crank up their engines in hot pursuit of the blues; while on shore, the anglers run up and down the beach following the path of screeching gulls and jumping fish.

Then by an unseen cue, the wind picks up; and I wrap my arms about me, lingering a little longer.

“Nature, however, sets her own time schedule,” said Taber. “She decides when the first white frost will come and when the geese go over and when the leaves will begin to drift down and when the hibernating small animals will feel the urge to snug down in their burrows.”

With my hair whipping wildly in the wind, I slowly amble back to the summer house for a cup of tea.

Tiverton by sea: A photo essay

Every summer I reread "The Country of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. The first chapter, "The Return," best explains what it means to return to a much-loved place like our summer home at Fogland. She writes:

"There was something about the coast town ... which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages ... Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore ... and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges... These houses made the most of the seaward view ... the small-paned high windows in the peaks of their steep gables were like knowing eyes that watched the harbor and the far sea-line beyond, or looked northward all along the shore ... When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair."

A woman reels in a fish as we approach Nanaquaket Bridge.

Navigating the currents near Old Stone Bridge, we follow the boat "Relentless."

The view seaside of the Fogland State Beach ramp.

Passing alongside a moored fishing boat near Nanaquaket.

Chugging past Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, I remember the day I interviewed a former pastor of the congregation. As he stood at the lectern, he began reciting "The Lord's Prayer," and I joined in: "Our Father who art in Heaven hallowed be Thy name... We were two worshippers, a Protestant and a Catholic, praising God with one strong voice.

A striking sailboat with red sails skims the Sakonnet.

After a three-hour tour, we return to the slip at Standish Boatyard.

Summer is sweet

Fuchsia beach roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert.

Driving to the summer house, I have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road. Bright green vegetation has sprouted everywhere, and flowers in a spectrum of colors line the countryside and spill from cottage gardens.

“June in New England is like a lover’s dream made tangible. Color and scent and sound; the hills indeed sing,” wrote Gladys Taber in “The Book of Stillmeadow.” Dawn comes so fresh and cool, and dusk flows like a still river into the deep sea of night. Noons are tranquil gold. There is nothing stern or sober about our Northern countryside now; even the grey rock ledges are gently blurred with silvery green lichens, and in the great cracks time has chipped out, a thousand tiny plants get a precarious hold.”

Indeed, this is the kind of day that comes to mind in the heart of winter: a benevolent sun, brilliant blue skies, gentle winds and tranquil seas reflecting the Creator’s handiwork.

Fuchsia beach roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert.

The huge maple tree in our front yard is so heavy with new growth that walking beneath it is like entering a deep forest shrouded from sunlight and carpeted with thick spongy grass.

Inside the summer house we throw open all the windows, as the salty air comes streaming in.

Then we head out to the shed in search of garden tools to contribute to the abundance of nature around us. The pitchfork is missing a tine, but we begin overturning the earth in the tiny kitchen garden at the back of the shed. The fertile soil comes alive with pink earthworms disturbed from their hiding places. We rake, hoe and plant the tomatoes, while the purple chive blossoms wave in the wind.

Medieval anchoress Julian of Norwich wrote: “Be a gardener. / Dig a ditch, / toil and sweat, / and turn the earth upside down / and seek the deepness / and water the plants in time. / Continue this labor / and make sweet floods to run / and noble and abundant fruits to spring. / Take this food and drink / and carry it to God / as your true worship.”

We sit in the shade, read and chat while we listen to the music of birdsong and the distant sloughing of the surf. 

Summer is sweet.  

'Summer is already walking the path to yesterday'

It is the time of the season when life naturally begins to accelerate, as we try to fit in a boatload of summer activities before September.

 

But at the same time we yearn to hold onto the feeling of space that summer brings, to rest, relax and dream.

 

This dichotomy comes to a head in late August, causing a frenzy of activity some days and bouts of laziness on others.

 

All this is amplified weekends at the summer house in Tiverton.

 

During the workweek we plan to spend hours at the seashore, splashing in the ocean, fishing in the cove, collecting sea glass, digging for clams.

 

But after lunch, we are more likely to linger at the table and sit in the backyard, reading and enjoying each other’s company.

“As August draws to a close, evenings are cool. Autumn is already in the air,” said New England author Gladys Taber, who wrote from her seventeenth-century Connecticut farmhouse. “The signs are small, but a country eye sees them. The grass no longer seems to grow overnight and need mowing. The peppers begin to turn rosy in the vegetable garden, and the tomatoes ripen.”

 

The weather this season has been the most erratic in memory.

 

June was just plain cold, and although the family gathered at the summer house, we mostly stayed inside.
 

July scalded us with hazy, hot and humid days, stuck in the mid-90-degree range. The month began with an invasion of Portuguese men-of-war lurking along our coastline. Then Fogland State Beach closed due to red tide. Lastly came the great white sharks spotted nearby at Gooseberry Island in Westport.

But all was forgiven as gentle August breezed in with its temperate sunny days, the stuff memories are made of. We sit at the water’s edge, content to just watch the waves roll in. But we know the days are numbered.
 

 “The season is changing, goldenrod and chicory mark the way. And some of the birds begin flying in formation instead of singly,” wrote Taber. “They are doing practice flights. They wheel and circle and talk a lot, and a few just cannot seem to fall in line... But when they begin to swing over the peaked roof, we know it is a sign. Summer is already walking the path to yesterday.”

Simple gifts

Gray overcast skies and bouts of drizzle do not dampen my spirits as I head to the summer house. There is little traffic on the road this July morning.

Fogland State Beach is deserted, yet the attendant at the shack is waiting patiently to check beach passes and collect nonresident fees.

At the ramp there are three empty trailers but nary a boat in sight. With no sea breeze, the Sakonnet is as tranquil as a pond, and as such offers no attraction to windsurfers who probably decided to sleep in this Saturday.

I open the truck window and listen; but there is no noise – no sloughing of the surf, no voices, no cry of a gull. The humid, heavy air muffles any sound.

On summer days like this – when boaters and beach-goers forgo the bay and neighbors stay tucked inside their cottages – I am alone in a natural world of my own and begin to see things often unnoticed.

Getting out of the truck, I am drawn to the bright blue of the hydrangeas, a beacon on this dark day. They spill over in the front yard, and I long to capture their brilliance on canvas – mixing shades of blue, white and dab of yellow, cradling the brush and painstakingly creating each tiny, perfect petal.

Like a huge umbrella, the tree in our backyard beckons, offering me sanctuary as I escape the drizzle. Under cover, I think about the many summers of my life that these branches shielded me from sun and rain.

One of my favorite places as a teen, I spent countless mornings reading here, while my family went fishing. Sheltered and reveling in solitude, I learned how to tell stories in this place, as I absorbed page after page of novels, nonfiction, newspapers and magazines.

My husband cut the grass yesterday, and it is a thick, verdant carpet underfoot. I slept on this cushion as a child, when there was nothing in our yard but a green tent. I still remember the sound the zipper made, as my father tucked us in for the night.

As I grew, this became my playground, the flooring for volleyball games and croquet, the perfect seat for watching July fireworks over the bay and the best place to search the night sky for a falling star.

As I celebrate another birthday this week, I am grateful for all the gifts God has given me. Shrouded in mist, I take a few steps in my backyard, and they are too many to count.  

Summer musings

In 1969 my family bought a parcel of land by the seashore for $3,000, which forever changed the course of our days.

Our location changed.

We spent weekends in June, July and August there. Over the years we slept in a tent, camper van, recreational trailer and eventually, a house. As children, our backyard playground became a long stretch of rocky coastline. At night, we fell asleep fanned by cooling sea breezes and soothed by the hypnotic sound of breaking waves.

Our activities changed.

At dawn, we carried our aluminum boat to the water’s edge. Heading upriver, we anchored over a ledge and fished until we tired of baiting the hook and taking flounder, scup and the occasional sand shark off the line. At night we fished off the rocks in search of striped bass, but more likely hooked eels. Afternoons were spent swimming, fishing, clamming, crabbing, reading, hitting the volleyball over the net and biking.

Our diet changed.

The result of our labors, we feasted on fish, clams, quahogs, periwinkles and crabs. The charcoal hibachi, and later gas-fired grill, was always ready to sear steaks, ribs, chicken, hamburgers and especially the plentiful varieties of fish. On steamy, humid days, we ate lettuce with huge chunks of just-picked tomatoes and sweet bell peppers from our tiny garden behind the shed. They were garnished with a sprinkling of parsley that my grandfather had started from seed decades before. And no afternoon ever went by without our savoring a heaping sugar cone of ice cream.

Our health changed.

Breathing clean sea air and warmed by sunshine, we ate when we were hungry and had plenty of exercise. We had no set schedule, no appointments, no housework and no obligations.

Our relationships changed.

We knew all our relatives. Family and friends stopped by for a visit on Sunday afternoons, and we caught up on each other’s lives. Permanently on vacation, we greeted our neighbors when we walked by their cottages, sat side-by-side on brightly colored towels at the beach or chatted on our hands and knees while digging for clams.

Our perspective changed.

Spending endless summer days sitting on a boulder and gazing out to sea, your faculties become sharper. You notice the tides, the wind direction, the intense fuchsia of sea roses, the rhythm of swaying sea grasses, the skies in shades of blues and grays, the puffiness of cumulus clouds, the fast-moving shapes of storm clouds, the dance of sandpipers, the flight of seagulls, and the miracle of pulsing waters in the estuary changing direction in front of your very eyes.

You see God’s handiwork everywhere, and you feel loved.

 

Anticipation



In our front yard maple leaves unfurl in a backdrop of blue sky.

Planning a vacation to any destination can be just as sweet an experience as actually being there.

It is the anticipation of the journey that brings great joy.

When you have a summer home, you feel a heightened awareness in springtime and a delightful urge to relocate yourself.

Throughout the long winter months, I am landlocked and content to occasionally visit the seashore.

But come May I can no longer endure the long-distance relationship, and thoughts of my seaside home consume me. I listen to weekend weather reports with new interest.

During the weekly trip to the supermarket, I toss barbecue sauce, magazines, suntan lotion and bug spray into the grocery cart.

While at the library, I lose track of time, reading book jackets of contemporary fiction and checking out a stack of books.

I reread favorite parts of my annotated copy of Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden,” “The Country of the Pointed Firs” by Sarah Orne Jewett, “Gift of the Sea” by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and “Charlotte Fairlie” by D.E. Stevenson.

I start making lists of things to do.

I let everyone know that I will be unavailable on weekends for the next three months.

Then one May morning dawns that justifies the advance preparation. I open the trunk of the car and pile in all those books and magazines, bags of groceries, sweatshirts, t-shirts, shorts and swimsuits; and I finally satisfy the longing.

The wait is usually over on Mother’s Day when traditionally we open the summer house. But this year unexpected delays postponed the ritual.

God willing, we will officially open the Fogland season on Memorial Day weekend.

In the meantime, I turn to the pages of one of my favorite books:

“They set out to walk through the little village to the harbor,” wrote Stevenson in “Charlotte Fairlie.” “It was bright and breezy. The sea was very blue with crisp white caps upon the waves; the sky was paler blue and cloudless. The land was green; the beach was of pure white sand with piles of bright yellow seaweed. Far in the distance there were purple hills, their outlines softened by haze. All the colors were clean – like the colors in a brand new paint box – and the sunshine was so strong that the very air seemed to glitter. Charlotte took deep breaths of air and smelt the faint tang of the seaweed drying in the sunshine – that unforgettable smell…”