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
