An Ode to Childhood Summers on the Delaware Coast

I know.  I haven't been writing.

I have nothing to say in my defense.

Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.

I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish.  And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year!  Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.

I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004.  It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood.  The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood.  The third shows an actual attempt to do just that.  And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.

But for now, here's the first section.  I hope you enjoy.

I know I enjoyed writing it.

Waves

I.                    Crest—The portion of a wave displaced above the still water line; the highest point of the wave.

We used to call it “Washing Machine.”

Washing Machine—our very technical term for what happened when the angry gray waves tore our tiny bodies off our fluorescent purple and orange Moorey Boogie boards; slamming us beneath a crashing current, boards flailing about above us, snapping our skinny arms back by the sea-soaked black leashes, sand invading every possible crevice as we tumbled into human pretzel shapes tossed about by the immense power of exploding murky swells, and we came up sputtering and choking, blinking in the bright sun and staggering to our feet above the frothy white aftermath which fizzled around our ankles.

Washing Machine.

And we would gasp for air, and tilt our heads to the side, banging the fists not restrained by the body board leashes against our skulls, in an effort to pound the sand out of our ears.

“Did you see that?” I’d scream to my brothers and best friend Courtney, charging back into the waves.  The taste of salt was overpowering, and I loved it in a way I wouldn’t come to understand until much later in life.  I would gallantly battle to throw my small body past the roaring breaking point, fighting my way back to my fellow adventurers, still rubbing my eyes, or tugging at my bathing suit, or briefly examining and then dismissing the scarlet scraping above my things and knees inflicted by my contact with the furious ocean floor during the last Washing Machine.

Ah, to have millions of grains of sand coat the top of my scalp, clinging to my clumped wet hair, and to not care!  To have the sticky residue of salt water paint my entire sun-bronzed body, and to not want a shower!  To be thrown violently time and time again from the slippery beast that was my Moorey Boogie board, and worry not once about twisting an ankle, or breaking what would become, later in life, my waitressing wrist.

What a wonderful thing, to be young and in love with the ocean.

**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher.  He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."

It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...

But I am still trying.

You Know You'e From Slower Lower If...

It's a Winter Wonderland out there today!

I sort of called it.  Well, I guess we all did.  The weather people got it right this time.  Which I'm impressed with.  I get that there's a lot of uncertainty in forecasting, and that it's not an exact science, but sometimes, I get downright irate with the local weather guys.  I feel like if they were held accountable like teachers are, there might be some more accurate weather predictions going on.  Can you imagine?  A state test for weathermen?  I say, go for it.  I mean, why not?  We spend billions of dollars testing the crap out of our children.  Maybe we could share the love by testing the competency of a grown up or two.  My vote is to start with the people who are telling us what to expect every day.  When they're wrong (which, sorry, weather people, is pretty often), everybody who cared enough to turn on the TVs or check their smartphones to dress for the occasion ends up feeling stupid. (And sometimes, too cold.  Or hot.)

If your kid gets a math problem wrong, at least, in general, she's only impacting herself.

Anyway, I digress.  One weather service I'm particularly fond of was started by a former student of mine, a Delmarva local who ALWAYS passed his state tests.  Delmar Weather tends to be more reliable than any other weather source I know of... and during intense weather events, they provide frequent, helpful updates.

So as my students were discussing the impending storm yesterday, I smiled, and told them that I was sure we would be off tomorrow.  I had checked Delmar Weather, had great faith in their predictions, and, as I know that Sussex County is incapable of dealing with even half an inch of snow on the ground, I figured we'd shut down for the duration.

"That's not what Ms. ***** says," commented one student.

"Ms. ***** isn't from here," I smiled.  "I've lived here longer than you guys have been alive.  I'm telling you, we're not going to have school tomorrow.  I'll see you next week."

So, I'd brag about getting it right--I already told my students they could say I told them so when they finally saw me again, which, for all we know, might be February--but really, it's not surprising.  I'm not picking on Sussex County here.  I LOVE that we have no idea what to do when it snows.  It's kind of our thing.  Dusting on the ground, two hour delay.  Stuff on the road?  Stay home until further notice.  It's quite awesome.

So this thought had me thinking about other things I love about Sussex County.  Things that separate the true locals from the transplants.  No offense is intended to either locals or tourists or new residents... just the musings of a born-and-bred country girl (which, Rashieme confirmed to me the other day, I most certainly am, no matter how I try to avoid it) from good ole Slower Lower Delaware.

And so, I present...

You Know You're From Slower Lower If...

• You are completely aware of the origins of scrapple, and you continue to eat it for breakfast on a regular basis.
• You drank Dogfish Head beer before they went nationwide.
• Your education or that of your children was impacted by thousands of hours of lost instruction due to fog delays.
• Beach fries (either D.B.'s or Thrashers) are considered their own food group.
• The smell of chicken manure in the spring and summer time doesn't offend you.  You've grown so used to it you barely notice.
• You knew what Punkin Chunkin was before they put it on TV.
• You've ever had someone from another area of the country ask you what state Delaware is in.
• 30-50% of the male student body population missed school for the first day of hunting season in any given year.
• You've ever worked in the retail or restaurant industry at the beach in the summer time, only to have a tourist ask you where you go for the rest of the year.
• You inadvertently killed upwards of ten pet hermit crabs throughout the course of your childhood.
• You don't drive on Rt. 26 in the summer time, because the commuting time from one end of the road to the other goes from 8 minutes in the off season to a minimum of 38 minutes (and often longer) when the tourists are in town.

Can you think of any others?  Comment below!

#ProudToBeFromDelaware