Margaret's trip to the beach

Manzanita Oregon Beach

I heard the sea breathe, inhaling and exhaling on the shore. The smell of seaweed and salt water and wood smoke permeated the air. Seagulls call calling along the shoreline picked at the beached fish and crabs. I scampered down the craggy boulders that make the seawall with my cousins, my sisters, and our dogs, and jumped onto the smooth dry sand. Along the beach lay driftwood, bleached of its life by the salt and sea and sun leaving skeletal dryness of may odd shapes and sizes. I picked through the driftwood until I found one that suited me, one with a gnarled wizards handle.

I dragged the driftwood along the firm wet sand, and wrote my name and "Peace on Earth" in large girlish letters to be seen by the air plane flying overhead and the man in the moon. I pressed my foot in the wet sand making a foot print to catch the sea water that whirls around my feet and bubbles and tingles around my toes. I watch until the foot prints and writing are no longer visible from the breathing waves.

The dog a cocker poodle mix, ran wildly down the shore giving chase to the seagulls, but never too close to its quarry of crab and star fish and the sea as it exhales and inhales. The dog jumped back as the ocean exhaled onto the shore running wildly in circles on the sand. The waves brought in the long green and yellow sea weed uprooted from the ocean depths. She curiously sniffed at the bulbous root end of the sea weed and bit into its hallow bitterness until it squirts salt water at her. Again, the dog jumps back and runs in circles. The dog then picked through the driftwood scattered along the sea wall and picked one bigger than herself, big enough to prove her might. She came toward me with her stick and then ran with it, dropped it and then stood over it protectively.

I waded along the shore to the tide pools stopped for star fish and sand dollars to take home. Sea anemones with their long tendrils thook in small unwary fish brought in by the tide. I giggled as the dog poked her nose into the anenome and felt its embrace. She yelped then barked and ran down the sand. Light and golden brown star fish clung to the rocks dining on mussels and the anenomes. Seagulls whirled overhead and dove into the tide pools to feast off the treasure there. The dog ran into the water and out of the water as if the ocean air breathed a life into her that invited unbounded energy. She continued to run up and down the shore as fast as the wind and the inhaling and exhaling sea could carry her.

The Swennes Beach House ~ Manzanita Oregon

Beach House ~ A Love Story

Never a smell the same - the musty, sea weedy smell as we burst open the blue door, and find the house still safe. Still waiting for us in its frame of pines and huckleberry bushes. First, the fire to warm our valley soft, short clad legs. Someone's left's a bushel basket of driftwood in the woodshed. A final day's task always. The paper catches and curls, the sweet smoke envelopes us, the fire blazes like a memorial candle, but better.

Upstairs the bunks are being spoken for. Clothes scattered in customary profusion as the kids wrestle into their bathing suits and head for the the open beach, yelling like comanches, free. "Later," clicks the switch in my mind. First, the kitchen with groceries. Ah, the coffee on top. A boon. The little round tea kettle onto the stove, put the coffee pot together. Here's God's blessing everywhere, hot and ready. The willow cups are there as if from the last wiping. Coffee and fire and peace, the holy trinity. Then stock the shelves, tomato soup there, spagetti beside, milk in the refrig. People will be back hungry soon, better put some soup on, set the tole painted trays. Juicy summer greening apples on each one. Snapping with sweet tartness. A fat oatmeal cookie for that last hollow hungriness.

Now walk down and meet the beach crew, meet the sun on the breakers, meet the sandy open breadth of shoreline, the gulls and the sky as in a winter dream you saw them. They are there. Open invitation to race like the children coming to greet you, right down to the tingling waves.

Night closing down, the children safe under the rafters, sleeping to the far sound of the surf. Toothbrushes have been found, the bathroom (one jump better than the trip out back) visited and abandoned in a wake of soggy towels. The last giggles smothered in the sound of beach sleep of young creatures. Now the armchair by the fire, add another hand of driftwood, a glass of sherry, a book to browse. Honeysuckle picked for the table blends its fragrence with the fire's, ease and calm come.

Early morning waking's not the trial of usual misary - an early walk on the beach, opening its tidespool treasures, is too enticing a prospect. A hot cup of coffee in stealth, the off for the luxury of a lone walk in the misty morning. There's the crest of the mountain through the fog, a white fishing boat out past the breakers. That sight is worth a run, a hard panting down the beach, breathing the freshness of sea deep inside. A pocket full of odd shaped rocks, half shells, sea weed fans to show for the jouney as you turn home. Now pancakes and syrup, lazy breakfast, kids pajamaed by the fire. No hurry. Lunch can be sandy hot dogs by a beach bonfire or a bowl of soup on the red and white checked tablecloth, and that's life's most serious decision.

Comes a rainy morning, drip dripping off the eaves, patting puddles in the dooryard's sand. Open the shelves, bring out the Chinese checkers, the game of pit, the old playing cards, crayons and drawing paper. Build up the fire and toast marshmallows. Then nose it out in an hour or two for a rain hooded walk. You'll find the ocean's come to town - shore, road, treetops melded together in a swath of mist. Get a full measure of the salt tanged air. it's too cool and wet to stay long. Back for a snooze by the fire, a warming bowl of chili for supper.

The last day - could it come so soon? Tomorrow an ordeal of packing, cartons of towels, sandy linoleum to sweep, lost bathing suits. Today, the gulls are whirling against the pine clad cliffs, the warmth of the sand behind a log, it's cool touch between the fingers. Fragile momentoes. Will they last another year? They always have, will stand as square as the little house under the pines, as warm as the fire in the brick hearth against another winter's pricks and pains.

~Written at Manzanita, Oregon, July 27, 1966 by Ardis Hitchcock

Mom making friends

This started out to be a regular day at the zoo. When we were in the children's petting zoo. when the zoo keeper was taking this chimp around to be pet she grabbed onto mom for a hug. It thought she was her mother and wanted to go home with us. But in time the zoo keeper got it from mom. It was an exciting moment.

Moki chats with himself

moki was a bird that my parents owned. he spoke fluent English and Japanese. My uncle first owned him when he was stationed in the army in Japan. Then he gave him to my parents. He swore in japanese and was taught to flirt to get attention. He was a delight. My father was cleaning the house a got in stuck in the vaccuum cleaner and was worried that he had killed Moki. But the stalwart that Moki was, he walked out of the vaccuum and had words with my father for being stupid and sucking him up in the vaccuum cleaner. He would flirt with my mother and sing to her. He would talk endless as seen here to himself. when he died, my parents grieved.

Looking out with hope