A Slice of American Pie: Part 7
The Sands of Time

The white sand sears the bottom of my feet. I hop from one to the other and seek the tiny bits of shade cast by sparse grasses. “Wear sandals” was the refrain that floated behind me from the screened porch as I followed the path to the beach. No, I have been in hot, black riding boots for days crossing the southern States. I drop my towel within sight of the teasing azure waves and hop onto it, pausing to savour the scene before me.

The beach stands aloof from the passage of time. She is decorated with a spray of bright beach towels, yellow shovels and buckets, folding chairs, umbrellas creating dots of shade and bodies cast in a diversity of size and shape. The scene is perennial with shrieks coming from the foaming waves, quiet shell pickers, and sun worshippers prone in the warm sand, couples strolling hand in hand.

I retrieve my towel and scoot across the last few metres, joining the eclectic family mix that has welcomed us to the Isle of Palms near Charleston, South Carolina. The Atlantic Ocean is a sight for sore eyes and other body parts after 8521 kilometers. We are hoping for a miracle healing as I push and pull Paul into the surf. His love affair with the ocean ended abruptly years ago when he encountered a Portuguese Man-O-War in his path.

However, his latest adversary, an army of Texan chiggers, is driving him back into the soothing waters. These bugs are an interesting species. You can’t see them which hardly seems fair. They bite you, burrow into your skin and proceed to set up housekeeping as they lay their eggs. Paul apparently was a hospitable host and the clan gathered in most spots from the waist down. Paul is covered with bites. Paul is miserable. Paul itches every place he can reach from the waist to the toes. Paul does not like what I put on him to stop the itching. The remedy is to paint the spots with nail polish thereby smothering the dears. We have done this with great ceremony (and accompanying dialogue) day and night for the past week. Oozing bug bites definitely put the lid on the romance scale.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the …” chigger bites. I dunk him in, drowning his protests.

Two year old Grace squeals at the end of my arms as the waves reach us, begging to go farther out. Grace joined this family one Christmas Eve from Korea. Her older brother and I discussed this one night: “I suppose you think Grace is soooo cute,” he offers, apparently having heard this many times. “All the girls in my school love Grace. They think she’s the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen. One girl said she’s as beautiful as a butterfly.”

It is a fitting description, with her dark features and tiny frame.

The Kirkley family joined our lives back in Maine, when the daughters were four and seven. Now they are young mothers who have extended the family to include husbands and children of their own. My two frolicked in these waves as toddlers and, succumbing to the time warp, I watch these new little bodies slip into the same role. This is tradition and memories in the making. We shared the same cottage that has welcomed them for 30 years. The ritual perpetuates itself in reassuring cycles.

Every morning little sleepy bodies dot the floral couches and wicker chairs as mothers create a modest breakfast. “Beach time” comes the call and the pace picks up as these now fed offspring scurry for bathing suits, sandals and towels. “Get your war paint” sings out a parent as they line up for sunscreen.

This, blissfully, has no reflection on the current political situation. The story of the mistreatment of Iraqi prisoners broke recently. Someone taped a copy of a speech by Senator Inhofe of Oklahoma on the refrigerator door: “I am more outraged by the outrage than by the treatment of those prisoners.” It is a strange war. And the country is as divided as when the Civil War tore it to shreds. We listen to heated debates between the Republicans and Democrats represented in this one family. It has been a long time since I have heard such vocal stands and know that this will be no ordinary election campaign. The United States seems to be taking a turn, but the horizon is still obscured.

But go away. Not here. Not at the beach.

The whistle of the tea kettle woke me this morning. Lynn had been nominated for the traditional sunrise walk on the beach, having sent excited children back to bed three times in the dark. She clutched a mug of coffee in one hand and a daughter’s hand in the other. I slipped quietly in behind them. It could be any year and any beach as the tiny sleepy figure moved from shell to shell, carefully choosing sizes and shapes for her collection. How could there possibly be more shells each morning after the previous day’s forage? Somehow the sea generously offers up a new daily supply to those that collect these summer vestiges bound for window sills and glass jars. In the same movement, she gently washes and smoothes the traces of the day from the sand, readying the canvas for next day.

Lured by the sands of time, I’m ready to stay but the rumble of the motorcycle slashes the illusion and I am plopped back up onto my throne on the back of the bike. With chigger bites abating, muscles relaxed, and other body parts recovered, it’s time to turn north and escape from the heat that has dogged us since Utah. Travelling has been easier than either of us anticipated. We have left torrential rains, burst dams, tornadoes and thunder storms in the turbulence of our wake, covering distances faster and easier than planned. I brush the sand from my jeans and hope it continues.