Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Read Free

between your toes.”
    Last year, for our forty-fifth anniversary, our children gave us a night at the most luxurious beach hotel in Southern California. Upon waking the next morning I heard that familiar question:
    â€œDid you turn on the water?”
    â€œI think so. Let’s go look.”
    And hand in hand we went through the French doors to the balcony, where the Pacific Ocean lay before us, waves lapping at the shore, and we once again were filled with that familiar hope. We smiled.
    Jean Stewart

Mr. Crescenti’s Beach
    A ge does not make us childish, as some say; it finds us true children.
    Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
    I was born and raised in New York City. My parents met, married, and moved into a large apartment building with a view of the East River. Dad had been a lifeguard at majestic Jones Beach on Long Island during his teenage years. Mother had developed a love of the beach as her parents owned a summer home directly by the Atlantic Ocean. They decided to pass this mutual passion on to their only daughter. Thus, at an early age, I was taught to swim and enjoy the feeling of sand between my toes.
    When I was seven years of age my parents bought a small summer cottage on the eastern end of Long Island. We began to spend the summer here, embracing the joy of being beach aficionados. I loved these times and had many adventures walking the beach, swimming in the surf, digging in the sand, and just watching the waves hit the shore.
    Each year, the day after Labor Day, the car was packed and we would begin our journey home to the city. Riding back I would write down all the memorable events of the summer and save them to read at future dates.
    Once we were home, school beckoned, my friends surrounded me, and life became the norm of daily routine.
    But the beach was still part of me. I slept under a blanket adorned with the prints of colorful shells. All the summer photos were taped to my bedroom wall. The seashells that I had collected were displayed on my dresser. Cold weather surrounded me, but the memories of the beach kept me warm.
    The years passed quickly, and I married and became the proud mother of two wonderful daughters. We lived five blocks from my parents on the same city street. I taught at the neighborhood school that I had attended as a child. My mother said that I went into teaching so that I could spend the summer at the beach. And we all did—together, as a family, in the same beach cottage that I knew as a child. Dad had added two bedrooms and a large family room to the once-small residence so that we could all enjoy the beach together. He also loved inviting the neighbors to visit as much and as often as possible. I never remember a time when the house wasn’t bursting at the seams with people. Laughter filled the air, and food passed hands in all directions.
    My daughters loved that so many of their friends could visit with them during the summer. At night the adults would sit on the beach and swap stories, enjoying the smell of the salt air and the gentle breeze off the ocean. The children always found something to do, usually ending with a marshmallow roast before bedtime.
    My youngest daughter, Donna, always loved to cuddle on my lap at night and listen to the adults’ stories. She listened intently, resting her head on my shoulder, entwining her long fingers within mine. I loved these times, so simple, yet so memorable.
    They say that history repeats itself, and so the day after Labor Day the girls were packed into the car and headed back to the city. Their summer snapshots were stuck to their bedroom wall and their seashells placed on the dresser. The school bell rang, and summer was over.
    Each day the girls and I would visit my parents after school. Mom would set milk and cookies on the table, and the girls would swap stories until my father left for work. They would then walk my parents’ dog before we left for our apartment. Invariably they would return from