The Edge

I love to stand on the ocean shore
Where the edge of the continent,

The very end,

Meets the edge of the sea

And then bubbles and froths with bits of seafoam and sand.

The shells swim in the surf

Caught between one edge

And the other.

Tumbling frantically toward the sand

Clinging for a moment till the wavelets pull them back.

The dance is constant,

The foamy water, the rolling shells,

The sand waiting warm and deep to rest them.

Till the waves finally toss them too high for the sea to reclaim

And they are safe.

I often feel like the silvery shells

Escaping the vivacious surging of the sea

Tumbling toward the warmth and rest of the earth

A buoyant bit of flotsam forever caught in the shallows,

On the edge

written by me around 2006, after a visit to Nags Head, N.C.

Spindrift

I do not live by the ocean

But I can conjure up it's sounds and smells

At will.

I see the pelican patrol wheel by,

the morning sun glinting on crests of gray-green water,

shadows in the surf, swimming silently.

I hear the high thin trill

Of seabirds floating on currents of air

and I inhale the scent of salt and seaweed

Sun and wind and sand combine

and create a breathtaking backdrop

for a surging sea.

written by me about the same time
(feeling a little homesick for the Outer Banks)

I took the picture when Robert and I took a little pleasure trip this fall.
Dedicated to the Beach Lovers in my family-'specially the Williams

Gentle Ben

Afterwhiles

My Daddy died on December 2 of 2010. Seems so odd to write that down and know that it is true--that the battle he had in that hospital bed in the living room at their home is over. Even more odd that as days have passed I don't think of him as in that bed--- but as the man who played guitar and sang on the front porch after we went to bed at night when I was little.

When my sister Adrian made strange strangled noises in her sleep and I was frightened and insisted the man across the street was stalking us (I was too young to know a pre-sleep apnea snore when I heard it)--Daddy would stomp out on the front porch in his underwear and shout across the street for Drummer New to go to bed and leave his children alone. He knew Drummer was asleep but didn't waste time arguing. Just saving the day for his eldest daughter (who was a chicken) as Daddy's everywhere do.

Remembering is the greatest gift. I remember Daddy bringing home a pony which we later found out we weren't zoned to keep. That pony nearly decapitated me when he ran through a clothes line with me on his back. I remember him building a tree house for us in the woods beside our house, then giving us twenty minutes of instruction before we were allowed to play in it because we might fall out. I remember him taking us to the beach, although he was afraid of water and wouldn't let us venture out more than shin deep . If it hadn't been for Mama we would never have learned to swim. I remember him waiting under the street lamp in front of our house because it began to snow while I was on a date and he was unsure of the driving ability of my young escort but didn't want to embarrass me by coming to take me home. I remember him telling me goodbye as he left for work the morning I was scheduled to catch a plane to Hawaii. He informed me I was not to go--it was too far and too dangerous---knowing full well I was going anyway and he would worry the whole time I was gone. I remember him going to the Doctor's with me when baby Robyn shoved a piece of cotton up her nose and how calmly he held her so the doctor could extract it while I cried and she screamed.

Daddy and I had the same ups and downs that most daddies and daughters had. We certainly didn't always agree. But he loved us and I knew that even when I didn't know much else--and depended on it. Being the youngest in his family made him a little rebellious in his own life and a little cautious about his children's lives. He loved to laugh, which is a good memory--maybe the best memory.

Lying in bed on a warm summer evening, listening to your Mom and Dad harmonizing on the front porch while he plays the guitar is a wonderfully peaceful way to drift off to sleep. "A long steel rail and a short cross-tie" or "On the wings of a snow white dove" still bring back the warmest, most secure feeling when I hear them. Editing, as someone once said, is necessary when remembering your childhood--I find that is true when a long illness has changed your perceptions of your father and turned him into a shadow of his former self. I like remembering. I like those nights of music and laughter. I like my Daddy becoming the man I knew before he was sick, though I learned a great many things from his illness too. I'll hang onto those memories--good and bad--and use my editing skills wisely.

The man don't come to our house anymore

He used to come around

And knock upon the door

We still live where

We always lived before

But the man don't come

To our house any more.

We each had a verse of that song and that is perhaps my fondest memory of my father--his playing and singing each verse for us as we sang along--Me and Addie and Andy and Mike--with Mama harmonizing, as usual. 'Night, Daddy.