FROM THE FRONT PORCH continued FROM THE FRONT PORCH con't. next column FROM THE FRONT PORCH con't. next column FROM THE FRONT PORCH continued Beach Bumz by Rebekah Sykes “Sand in the Toes, Ebbtide, White Water Drive, Sea Crest, W Summer Place curves around to E Summer Place, Surf View, Beach View, the street names encourage our journey from Emerald Isle to Atlantic Beach. The humpbacked bridges connecting the island stretch as giant whales seeking the open sea. The roads travel from all things beach to humanity with names of Elizabeth, Matt, William, Carolyn, Georgia, Rhett, to counting from 25th Street to 1st and back to Ocean Front, Summer Winds, Deep Water, past the Clam Digger Inn. A Holly, Willow, Laurel soon lead the way as thick evergreens lean into the salty wind as the names entertain. Pretty soon the only name we want to find is Beach Bumz, our destination for a week of fun in the sun! The four hours of, “How much longer?,” “Eye spy with my little eye,” reading billboards, and “Are we there yet?” have finally reached our destination. Smells of summertime pour into the neighborhood from the pot-bellied smoker in the backyard. Uncle Roger has come all the way—a 23 hour drive—from Texas bringing his secret family recipe of smoked goodness. The cousins pour out of the beach house to greet us; my boys bring hugs and hellos, discovered treasures, and un-kissed boo-boos. Due to school and work assignments, my sister and I arrive mid-week; all others gathered on Sunday getting the party started with family, fun, and food. We’ve already missed the grilled burgers and hot dogs, egg roll night, and spaghetti supper night; thankfully we didn’t miss Uncle Roger’s taste of Texas—smoked brisket, sliced pork butt, chicken legs, and pulled pork offered with the special sauce, crowning raspberry glaze and sides of sweet baked beans, crisp cole slaw, tart pickles, red onions, chips, and sweet tea. Oh my goodness! Each bite delights! The company is even better as my sisters and I re-unite on the porch swing with overloaded plates and happy hearts! FINALLY—we are together again! All the way from Anchorage, Alaska; College Station, Texas; Raleigh, and best of all Southern Pines, six independent households come together under one roof for a week at the beach. Mema makes it possible with Papa in heaven. How we miss him. His smile; his jokes—him! His love of the ocean continues to unite all 18 of us with ages ranging from almost 70 to 7 in a beach house named Beach Bumz. Overflowing in abundance, the showers run cold, and the bedrooms overflow into pull-out sofas, blow up mattresses, a tent on the back porch, and hammocks swinging under the porch beams. Mornings greet bikers and walkers sharing the sidewalk paralleling the sea as one side holds the Atlantic and the other side the Intracoastal Waterway. Once the sidewalk gives way to Wings, McDs, and surf shops, a right turn into the neighborhoods welcomes a new vista. The houses decorated in happy colors of pink flamingo, sea foam green, and aqua blue remind of Papa looking straight out from the shoreline declaring, “Bermuda is just over the horizon a mere 665 miles east. Anyone up for a swim?” Since my bike ride is an easy 12 miles to Fort Macon where the cannons still face the Beaufort Inlet, I choose the path most traveled. A boardwalk ending with an observation deck lined in weathered wooden planks becomes the bend in the road where I stop to smell the sea. Joining my quiet, a lone fisherman casts his line. I wonder what brings him here. Maybe he’s left a rowdy houseful, a long week of overtime, maybe solitude is his norm. My thoughts include him as I wonder his. Is he happy? sad? overflowing with abundance or need? I hope for grace and for peace as peaceful as this new day. Mid-morning we join more family staying further down the island. We spend the day with 17 children and one on the way! Next summer there will be 19 cousins running around. Poor little Charlie came down with a fever and sore throat which kept him home today. Long ago, once my sisters and I were out of school, we would come to the shores of Morehead City to be with our cousins. Our happiest days remember swimming, boating, surfing, catching crabs— all with no sunscreen and little supervision; we ran wild and free! We hold the joy close as we watch the new generations. “Where did all of the these kids come from?!?!” my sisters and cousins laugh; now we are the Mamas serving sandwiches, watermelon slices, and sweet tea. Here 30 years later, Uncle Mark still baits my hook and casts the line. Today I hold the line taunt, pole against my belly as we watch the waves and talk creative writing, his $500 prize winning poem, Kennedy’s assassination, the Great Depression, our great Recession, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, the ideas roll in and out with the gentle waves where the children play. Dinner at the Sanitary Restaurant brings us all together with Uncle Bill & Aunt Carolyn, Uncle Mark & Aunt Anne. Outside the yachts line the pier as the Waterway laps the planks of barnacles and the seagulls beg for hush puppies. Inside three long tables host the broiled blue fish, shrimp grilled in butter, shrimp and grits, fettuccine Alfredo, mac-n-cheese, linguine with marinara, with sides of clam chowder, salads, applesauce, twice baked potatoes, and plates piled high with French fries. Each plate varies as the personalities when host Mr. John makes his way over to our table. “Southern Pines, yes! I’ve been all over Moore County—Pinehurst, Carthage, Cameron—nice place! Dr. Kilpatrick’s family visited; we have a photo of his family at the front door.” Mr. John seems to know everyone and every happening over the last 100 years; he’s an icon, a landmark all his own. He remembers our heritage especially our Grandpa Bill Price whom we remember tonight with our 3 graduates: Luke from NC State with a BS in engineering; William finishes up an Associates degree; Jonathan graduates from high school. Following a family heritage of NC State engineers beginning with Grandpa Bill and cousin Cort, not only did Luke earn a diploma, but he also became a “Fellow” with an Entrepreneurial Initiative. Watch out, world! After our seafood feast the guys decide to hunt their own. With pocketknives in hand, they create spears of bamboo, carve sea shells into points, and bind with twine. Ready to find a private place on the sound, they gear up for adventure ahead. I smile in their joy of being together. They soon return with no fish but with tales of hermit crabs by the scores. We head out, my sisters and I for our nightly walk. We enjoy the moonlight, the quiet streets, and homes that rest in straight rows following the ocean’s horizon. I read the names and smile, “Happy Days,” “Sea Mist,” “Serenity Now!” Dining room lights shine as we share our dreams, goals, struggles, and always hope. We discuss all things life and get it out in whispers that grow louder as we agree, disagree, laugh, and love. Somehow discussing life with kindred spirits helps to sort out the fog, as a lighthouse the storms at sea. We walk long past midnight yearning for more time; we retire with the promise of a new day and soon enough another walk. The darkened, quiet house welcomes a goodnight. Mema becomes the short order breakfast cook as the teenagers slowly emerge one by one all crazy haired and sleepy eyed. Of course the four little ones have been up for hours; early to bed early to rise. Loving their mornings, they get some early shopping in with Mema to Dollar General, a short walk down the road to the left. Trips back and forth delight as the cousins come home with gummy worms, chocolate bars, duct tape for inventions, drawing pads for newlyinspired masterpieces, bug spray as the no seeums attack at sunset, soap, fishing nets, all the things we left behind. I pass them on my bike ride out. This morning I brave the trails at the Fort and pray I don’t get lost in the wonder. The magnificent trees with their limbs waving yet still have been shaped by the ever-constant winds; the white sandy trails travel to boardwalks over inlets; the wildlife scurries in the morning’s quiet rush to find nuts and berries. The thick vegetation soon clears for an expansive view of the marsh; the grasses grow green to brown where the white egrets fish. I envy their habitat, worlds away from my own. Soon enough a wooden sign with heavy, twisted ropes and 3 laughing dolphins reads, “Fort Macon Marina.” My longings continue as the boat names muse Fishful Thinking, Reel Fun, Cast Away. Yes, I get it! A pod of dolphins swims front and center; they do not continue onward but dance and dive with the pelicans as if they’re performing. The audience runs along the shoreline cheering and clapping with some children hollering, “SHARRRRRRRRKS!” Uhmmm, that would be my nieces as their big cousins warned, “Two fins—it’s a shark!” With the upright fins and splashing tails, it’s hard to keep count. In the excitement, a fisherman races to re-cast from the shoreline hoping for some bragging rights. After a full day of sunshine, sandcastles and SHARKS, we find our boardwalk leading over the dunes to.... Dairy Queen! Having DQ directly across the beach access is a trap, an irresistible temptation, a brilliant marketing strategy! Today my nieces talk me into the oooooowie-goooooie hot fudge for the center of a Royal Reese’s Blizzard. That hot fudge mixed in the cold cream enjoyed on the bench outside—a taste of heaven! I’m already dreaming of tomorrow’s treat, a strawberry, pineapple, banana blizzard topped in chocolate hard shell. Not so good for the beach bod, but soothing to the soul! Beach Bumz has made complete beach bums of us all! We lose track of the days as schedules wash away, our footprints follow sunset’s glowing reds, and our hearts make room for dear memories. As the plaque in the beach house reads, “The sand may brush off. The salt may wash clean. The tans may fade. But the memories will last forever.” May your summer vacation ahead include lots of love, family, and food! No matter where you travel from the mountains, plains, or sea, may the spirit of relaxed, refreshment turn you into Beach Bumz all summer long. �� No. 127 The Pinehurst Gazette, Inc. p.3
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