It's a Beach House Moment

Well, it's Sunday, the last day of vacation.  

Except that it's not.  My immediate boss is on vacation this week so the pace will be lesser than usual. Which is completely okay with me.  It lets me ease into the week and ramp up almost at leisure.  Two whole weeks before me where I do not have to travel beyond the confines of my office.  My parents are visiting this coming weekend; we are their getaway and they're going to bum around Indy while we work.  But again, that's welcome.  I know they will have something perking in the crock pot for when we get home.  

This year's beach house vacation was a great success.  They are always great experiences but this one blessed us with a great house about 200 steps from the lakeshore, wonderful fellowship with our friends-turned-family, and weather to suit everyone's tastes.  And a lot of wine, cured meats, and cheeses.  

We are crafting our beach house traditions a little bit each year.  The routines create a feeling of familarity and comfort; without one element, the beach experience is incomplete.  For instance, as soon as we arrive, the boyz drop the girls off at the beach house, pick our bedrooms, and unload all the luggage and gear.  The girls stay back (okay, cracking the week's first bottle of vino) and unpack, settling the house.  The guys head to the store and stock us up on beautiful steaks, seafood, and enough gourmet meats, cheeses, and olives to cause immediate, irreversible heart damage.  

We open up the week with a stellar dinner and if possible, a beach bonfire that night.  

Each morning, I'm always first or second to rise.  It's always me or Mr. Vera.  Mrs. Vera and Jack always sleep until 9:30 or 10; they come staggering out of their respective rooms, glasses on, grappling for the nearest coffee pot.  We sit and share the space until someone says, "Well, is it beach time?"  Then the girls usually go to the beach first and the boys join us a little while later.  I'm always the one who has to go to the bathroom first, a few hours later, so when I return to the beach house, I usually make us a munchy lunch of crackers, meat, cheese, little sandwiches, carrots/hummus, etc.  We sit in our beach chairs, reading our books, looking up to share funny quotes or stories from our books, or just to share random memories from beach vacations past.  

We sit out there until about 5pm (sometimes later...one day this week, we stayed out until 7:30).  We go in and each shower and then begin dinner preprarations.  We rarely eat out while up at the beach house.  Why do so when it's so much more fun to pour a lovely chardonnay while cutting up veggies?Why drive somewhere and eat a subpar cheeseburger when our houses always have fully-stocked kitchens?  After some fantastic eats, we will either retire to the adirondack chairs and bonfire in our yard or to the beach for sunset.  

And if it rains, we hit the wineries nearby to stock up for the coming year.  We no longer do the wine tastings; we purchase a bottle and head out to the gorgeous decks overlooking peaceful brooks and ponds.  And yes, we have our regular tables and seats at the wineries.  I think they are starting to remember us.  

That's pretty much the routine.  Except that this year, a few moments really stood out to me.  

Our house this year had the bonfire pit in the front "yard."  It wasn't really a yard but the area in front of the house was surrounded by hostas and tall zebra grass so it felt private.  Once we fogged the plants for bugs, it was quite nice.  One particular night, after a long beach day, we chose to forego sunset and stay up at the house, at the fire pit.  We were listening to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, it was a chilly evening for a cool front had gone by and unleashed some serious waves - so we could hear the waves from our chairs, and if I closed my eyes, it could have been 1940.  The area has not changed since the beach community was constructed in the 1920's and 30's and time really does slow there.  Ray Charles' "Georgia" or Ella's "Summertime" transports all of us back in time, to a simpler time when life wasn't rushing by at such a dizzying, frantic pace.  The crashing waves provided a stellar backdrop for our bonfire, the lake breeze cooling us just enough to require sweatshirts.  It also felt like fall, which wasn't a totally unsettling feeling.  I was feeling wonderful as long as I could sit in that chair.    

Another moment occurred at that same front bonfire area.  Vera and I were sitting out there, just chilling after our showers as the boys cooked us dinner.  [On the menu was beach house po' boys.  Try it sometime...start with raw jumbo shrimp and after de-seeding it, cut a jalapeno long-way.  Put the jalapeno slice where the vein of the shrimp was.  Then wrap the whole thing in bacon and secure with a toothpick.  Then grill until both the shrimp and bacon are done.  After browning the insides of a sour dough bun on the grill, melt habanero Havarti on the bun and then add the de-toothpicked shrimp.  Whip up a Sriracha aioli and you will have a happy tum-tum.  Trust me.]  But as we sat there, relaxing, our bizarre neighbors came and went, without even acknowledging us.  They were all extremely skinny and we decided, unhappy.  They ignored us several times and so we dubbed them the "angry elves" from the South Pole.  It became quite funny because when one of us would spot a neighbor on the beach, we would ask, "hey, is that an elf?"  That whole thing ushered in some quotes from "Elf" that quickly defined this beach house as the great 1920's craftsman house with the angry elves next door.  

We had several fabulous beach days but the last one was probably the best.  We logged 9 hours on the beach that day.  It was hot, so we played catch with a football in the shallow waves.  We went for walks down the beach, dreaming of owning one of those grand lakefront properties (for both the summer views and the majestic winter storms).  At precisely 4:35 p.m., our beach neighbor (not an elf) pulled a bottle of cold, crisp white wine from one of their coolers.  Vera looked at me and said, "we need that wine."  After a quick google search, we found that the closest neighborhood shop closed in 25 minutes.  So we hightailed it, on a "code wine" to get to the store before it closed.  We were succesful, returning to the beach a little while later with cold white wine of our own and some beer for the guys.  It was then that we dragged our beach chairs down to the water's edge and enjoyed our beverages with the tiny waves gently crashing on our feet and calves.  The sun glittered on the water, like diamonds.  Others took their chairs out to the shallow sandbar and set up camp in 8-12 inches of water.  Kids played around us while adults taught them how to skip rocks.  It was an ideal beach scene.  None of us wanted to leave and that ended up being our 7:30 p.m. night.  And we only left because scary clouds were building to the west.  We probably would have sat there all night.  It was okay, though; even though our sunset bonfire was rained out (by a ferocious storm, I might add), we shared our Last Supper in the safety of the beach house's dining room.  The Last Supper is where we eat all the leftovers in a grand, holiday-esque feast.  Nothing really flows and dishes come out in courses.  But man, is it good.  

Beach life is good.  As much as I wish I could take 2-3 months off each summer to spend them by the Lake Michigan shore, a week is enough to reset my bearings, breathe a bit, and recharge for the job that I love and feel very (very) fortunate to have.  The Yankee "Dunegrass" candle also came home with me so whenever I need to have a "beach house moment," all I need to do is put on some Louis and Ella, light the Dunegrass candle, and grill up a beach house po' boy.  

Beach house moments are all such wonderful blessings.  

Here's to the summer, to the beach, and to lifelong memories.

Whole Hearted

No matter where I am in the world, if I'm on a beach, there comes a time in the afternoon when I have that beach to myself.

In Anna Maria, it was around 5 p.m.  The beaches quickly cleared as people showered and headed to dinner.  In the fading light of day, the waves take on a majestic hue and I look around for someone with whom I can share the beauty...and...no one.  

It's just me.  Out here with the wind and the waves and the beach and the gulls.  It seems that I'm the only one for miles.  I gaze down the beach and marvel at my luck to have such a piece of creation to myself.  

The beach is mine.  No one to share it with...but what I want most is something with whom I can share the experience.

A similar encounter occured the other day during our Lake Michigan beach house escape.  Once again, we are vacationing with our beautiful friends, loving and tolerating and patient.  They teach us what love is about and accept us through all the hysterically funny times and crazy down times.  We're family and it's just what we do.  

But on an overcast Monday afternoon, Jack and our friends all wanted to nap.  I didn't fault them this but felt the draw of the beach, beckoning me to visit.  So I packed up my chair, towel, and bug spray, and hit the beach.  When I first arrived at 3:30 p.m. or so, the beach was pretty crowded.  Dads playing with toddler kids and moms chasing after preteens to coat them in sunscreen.  

But as the time progressed, fewer and fewer shared the beach space with me.  By 5:15, it was me and the gulls.  Everyone disappeared to their beach houses, in pursuit of the perfect burger or kabob concoction.  One other guy was out there on the wind-swept beach, teaching his young golden retriever how to retrieve, praising him with every successful return.  Soon after, even he and the puppy went in and it was me, left to discern my thoughts and absorb enough sunshine to get me through until March.

I've always been a beach bum.  My mom taught me the art of sunbathing when I was a kid.  The goal was to relax, get just enough sun so you don't burn, and come back from the beach with at least one good story.  

My mom had skin cancer last year and she's done with the "just enough sun" phenomenon.  I like just enough sun for a souvenir tan, so that I can feel as though I've been somewhere great, absorbing said greatness to max out my bars as though I'm in a Sims game.  

The beach is always where I have felt whole.  Complete.  Gestalt.  Like a piece of me is missing when I am inland, going about my day-to-day business.  Like there is an itch, a longing, of something I can't quite obtain when I'm somewhere else.  There are few things I like more than to watch waves rolling in from afar, wondering about their origins, their stories.  Did a storm rile them?  Wind out of the north?  Small earthquake?  Why is that pulse of energy rippling through the water at that point in time?

But as we sat on the windy beach, hair billowing in the breeze, I noticed something different in the waves.  Their story changed....they were no longer angry, seeking the shore in mad pursuit.  They seemed...reluctant.  As though they didn't want to pound the shore, their energy spent, anger receding.  They seemed almost apologetic and yet destined to roll over, just because there was enough wind and energy to compel them. 

They seemed placid.  Six-foot tall waves on Lake Michigan were placid.

I felt placid.  No longer angry but compelled to keep rolling because of the energy I've been riding for a long time, for hundreds of miles.

It made me reflective about my father.  I still keep thinking about him, wondering if I will randomly run into him in SB, Chicago, or anywhere in northern Indiana.  I think about him way more often than I thought; his death was four months ago and I still think I could meet him in the neighborhood Meijer.

He's gone.  I will not see his particular shade of green eyes ever again.  I will not be able to look into his eyes and see the placid green I observed in the waves, on the beach tonight.  Anger gone, just the waves riding out the stored-up energy propelling them for miles.  I don't know nearly enough about his later life and I really don't want to create a psychologicial complex about how I never really knew my dad and then he went off and died without us reconciling.  Yet when I return to the beach, my soul feels a wholeness and I know he's there with me.  

The angry waves have passed.  Now we are riding out all that stored-up energy until peace and calmness return, once again, to the shore.  

And to my heart.      

I'm Living in a Movie Right Now

It is a superb Fourth of July.  

July 4th is quickly becoming one of my favorite holidays.  No family drama, no worries about presents and specific menus that keep with tradition, and a feeling of "anything goes" summertime attitude accompanies everything.  We buy store-made potato salad, drink copious amounts of margaritas, and join random neighborhood parties.  Well, just because.

So, last night...Jack had the brilliant idea to walk the neighborhood after we grilled our ribs and shrimp (if you want a wild shrimp experience, boil some jumbo shrimp in a Miller Lite and some Old Bay seasoning.  An unexpected gastronomic experience).  We walked down to the cul-de-sac a few houses down, following the sounds of Rihanna and Whitesnake.  Instead of feeling like outsiders (these were new neighbors), we immediately felt welcomed and part of the crowd.  One of the guy's dads was there and reminded us EXACTLY of Arthur from King of Queens.  It was awesome.  In that "is this really happening?" type of realization as Jack and I walked home at 1 a.m.  

That was after the cops came.  

Yeah, the cops.  

Someone in the neighborhood called the police on the block party (which was actually the "pre-gaming" of today's block party.  Hell yes, we are going back tonight).  There was one house not represented at the block party so we knew who called.  But the funniest thing was that the cop merely got out of his car and said, "great party...just make sure no one tries to drive home" and left!  We thumbed our noses at that one house.  

But we really underestimated the party scene of our neighborhood.  Everyone is 30-40 with the requisite 2-3 kids ranging from ages 7-15.  You know those movies that portray kids' idealistic childhoods, like "Now and Then?"  That's where I live.  I can barely fathom the stories they will tell when they are 40 or 50, with their own kids.  We're part of a developing history here.  

So yes, July 4th rocks.  And several neighbors spent hundreds of dollars on fireworks so as long as the subdivision doesn't burn down, we'll be having a fabulous night. 

***********************

Work is going well and despite a super-early deadline for budgets this year, I'm feeling good about things.  Because I'm an ethicist now and report to Corporate, my budgets were due by July 3.  I submitted them on July 2 and 4 p.m. and quickly hightailed it to the nearest hamburger and glass of vino.  I hated that they were due before vacation but now that they are complete, I'm SO glad that monkey's off my back!

And yes, vacation is coming soon.  We leave this coming week for a glorious 8 days in the sands of Lake Michigan with our dearest friends.  The texts going back and forth are hysterical.  Our friends found us Tommy Bahama beach chairs at a Costco in Chicago and here I am, stocking up on Tide pods and ziploc bags for the beach house.  Each year, we have learned something.  Like, that we need lots of laundry soap so that we can wash our beach towels every evening.  Or that we really never use the mayo we buy at the store.  Or that the ladies go through way more Chardonnay than we anticipated.  Hypothetically, we start with our first glass of Chardonnay at 11 a.m. some mornings.  

I just wanted to clarify whether it's 11 a.m. Central time or Eastern?  Haha.

So summer is in full swing here at Chez Dorrie.  It's beautiful, relaxing, and full of lots of parties, beaches, and soon-to-be finished comps for my master's degree.  The last step is upon me...written comps on Tuesday and oral comps on July 21.  Then I get a year off before the PhD.  Yay!  Bring on the sunscreen, Chardonnay, and awesome neighborhoods full of new friends!