Beachy Keen
Once every spring my old man got it into his head to go to the beach. So he would tell my mom to make reservations at the aqua colored efficiency they knew of in Florida, pack up the kettle and the kid and the car, he'd peel two or three weeks off his work schedule and we'd motor down from our northern climes to the Sunshine State.
Great for me since I'd dive deep into the pleasures of fried food, itchy bedcovers, color tv with bad reception and pools so chlorinated it would melt warts off.
Not so good for my mom who would have to cook, read maps and keep an eye on the carsick express in the back seat. That would be me, champion hurler of the interstate. Minor undulations in the road brought the blueberry waffles to the fore (and the dashboard for that matter) and the old man had a way of finding highways that inspired corduroy.
Then, once we hit weather that eked its way above sixty degrees or so, the old man would crank down the windows for the fresh spring air. I'd be blasted into a deep freeze, comic books would get sucked out onto the highway like we had just shot out the window of a 747 at altitude and the next day's sniffles would be quietly blamed on dad who was not so quietly blaming me for getting the sniffles and snots.
That last bit came back to me as Thumper and I were driving back home from a short break at the ocean side. For some stupid reason I had the windows open down the interstate and she patiently put up with shouting conversations above the air roar while he hair was sucked out the sun roof making the car look like a hari krishna mobile or somebody dangling a long hair tabby out the window.
Once we hit Florida, that's me and the folks, Thumper and I went elsewhere, I of course would dash to the beach on day one, bury every toy I had brought with me and forget where, and grill my skin to the color of a fresh tomato ensuring that light breezes would send me screaming for the next five days.
That is, if I didn't get to almost drowning in the pool first by flailing off a styrofoam toy surfboard. Fortunately as I hit the water, I bounced off the chlorine.
Or I'd run into the surf, get keeled over by a wave and have my backside eroded by the five or ten pounds of sand I picked up in my shorts getting skittered across the ocean floor.
This may explain why I limited myself to a walk on the beach last week and still crabbed about sand in your shoes. Either that or, the water was a little cold and after all, this was the first vacation Thumper and I took alone. You don't want cold water issues here.
So now we're back and thinking fondly of the jellyfish we almost stepped in or the horrific burn she got on her shoulders on the first overcast day. Not that that has anything to do with jaunts to Florida but I was thinking that next spring we might pack the bunnies up and hit the beach down there like I did years ago with my folks.
After all, there's a whole toyshop buried in the sand, just waiting.
Bunny on.
Great for me since I'd dive deep into the pleasures of fried food, itchy bedcovers, color tv with bad reception and pools so chlorinated it would melt warts off.
Not so good for my mom who would have to cook, read maps and keep an eye on the carsick express in the back seat. That would be me, champion hurler of the interstate. Minor undulations in the road brought the blueberry waffles to the fore (and the dashboard for that matter) and the old man had a way of finding highways that inspired corduroy.
Then, once we hit weather that eked its way above sixty degrees or so, the old man would crank down the windows for the fresh spring air. I'd be blasted into a deep freeze, comic books would get sucked out onto the highway like we had just shot out the window of a 747 at altitude and the next day's sniffles would be quietly blamed on dad who was not so quietly blaming me for getting the sniffles and snots.
That last bit came back to me as Thumper and I were driving back home from a short break at the ocean side. For some stupid reason I had the windows open down the interstate and she patiently put up with shouting conversations above the air roar while he hair was sucked out the sun roof making the car look like a hari krishna mobile or somebody dangling a long hair tabby out the window.
Once we hit Florida, that's me and the folks, Thumper and I went elsewhere, I of course would dash to the beach on day one, bury every toy I had brought with me and forget where, and grill my skin to the color of a fresh tomato ensuring that light breezes would send me screaming for the next five days.
That is, if I didn't get to almost drowning in the pool first by flailing off a styrofoam toy surfboard. Fortunately as I hit the water, I bounced off the chlorine.
Or I'd run into the surf, get keeled over by a wave and have my backside eroded by the five or ten pounds of sand I picked up in my shorts getting skittered across the ocean floor.
This may explain why I limited myself to a walk on the beach last week and still crabbed about sand in your shoes. Either that or, the water was a little cold and after all, this was the first vacation Thumper and I took alone. You don't want cold water issues here.
So now we're back and thinking fondly of the jellyfish we almost stepped in or the horrific burn she got on her shoulders on the first overcast day. Not that that has anything to do with jaunts to Florida but I was thinking that next spring we might pack the bunnies up and hit the beach down there like I did years ago with my folks.
After all, there's a whole toyshop buried in the sand, just waiting.
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Monday, August 14, 2006
1 Comments:
where d'ya go?? If it's Maine, then I am REALLY jealous!!!
p.s. you sound so very happy
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