By: Judith Harris Pappas
Copyright 2009 by Judith H Pappas All rights Reserved

Each day as I open the shutters to greet the beauty of our Paradise Island, I say a prayer of thanks for my retirement here on this peaceful scrap of nature by the sea. My “Beach Walking Buddies” were busy with chores this morning, but I decided to go it alone and chose the beach access at Scott Road for a change of scene. I started walking towards American Beach, but soon was stopped in my tracks by the sight of not one, but five dolphins. They were casually and gently feeding and swimming, going in the opposite direction from me. I quickly changed my course and started walking north, following the delightful creatures who were putting on quite a show, only fifty or 60 feet away from me. It was such a peaceful experience, pure bliss; and before long I drifted into memories of lazy summer days when I was a child enjoying carefree days, like today. This morning, with the hot sun beating down on me, I stopped to sip the cool water I was carrying; and as the dolphins faded from sight, my mind flashed back to a hot humid day like today, long ago, on July Fourth in the year 1950. Back then, a walk on the beach was this child’s wishful dream. I grew up in a city, and splashing around under an open fire hydrant was considered to be a day of great summer fun. There was however something even more special that made summer time unique. There were wonderful days when I and my sisters would be transported to Jackson Heights, a suburb of Queens NY, where we would spend a glorious day with our Nana in her lovely white cottage nestled into pillows of green foliage, flowering shrubs, peach and apple trees, gardens and strawberries and wide open blue sky. There was not a tall building in sight, and to us children it looked like a castle set down into the Garden of Eden. As I write this, I can almost hear my Angelic Nana, tall and gray haired in her polka dot dress, calling to us from her window, scolding my impish cousin John. “John, get out of that tree this minute”. Nana was a gentle woman, but I was a very timid child and I trembled at her angry sounding words. John however, ignored her completely as he continued to climb higher into the old apple tree that was supporting the swing I sat on. I now close my eyes and truly can feel the coarseness of the thick rope held tightly in my little fists, and the splintery feeling of the plank seat of the swing. My dad had made that swing and even though I was a wimp of a child, I did not fear swinging high into the green branches overhead, for I knew the rope was strong and I need only to hold on tight. Now John was dangling overhead and I feared I might collide with him, so I let the swing glide to a halt with a pang of disappointment in my chest. Normally my only concern on the swing was that the dead dog buried under the tree might become exposed from us children kicking up the dirt with our feet as we played. I always thought that the poor dog should be dug up and moved to a spot more worthy of respect. It did not seem right to me that a dog should be buried underneath a swing where children played. As I imagined what the boney skeleton of a dog would look like, I heard my Nana’s voice again call out from the kitchen window, “John, I’m warning you”. After what seemed to be a very long time, John pretended to be bored with the idea of tree climbing and he dropped from a height of about ten feet nearly giving poor Nana heart failure.

We were called into the house and I knew John was going to have to sit on the chair again. I think my Nana was the person who invented “Time Outs”. She would tell him to sit on the chair until she said he could get up. He would wiggle and squirm and nearly stand on his head in that chair, but he never got off it and that was good enough for Nana. I amused myself by watching Nana cut apples and peaches for the pies she was making and my mouth watered. Sometimes I would stand quietly for hours watching her bake. She could make a thin lemon icing put over a plain white cake that was better than anything in the world. It seemed she was always in the kitchen cooking or baking. Her kitchen was very old fashioned with a funny looking ice box that dripped water into a pan and needed big blocks of ice brought to it from the “Ice House” man, who traveled in a horse drawn cart. She had a gigantic white kitchen sink and she insisted on using a funny smelling brown soap that I only saw at her house. I could never understand how you could get clean if you washed with brown soap.

When John was released from the chair, we were each given a cookie and my dad hooked up the garden hose over the garage door creating a make shift sprinkler for us. We squealed with joy. Neither John nor I lived in a private house and this was a real treat for us. We could not get into our bathing suits fast enough and we ran and played under that cool water in our bare feet for hours before we tired of it. When we saw all our uncles walking to the side yard, we deserted the sprinkler and followed them. Our Uncle Joe had arrived with a keg of beer and the men made a big fuss out of opening it. My father did not usually drink beer, but I saw him smiling and joking with the other men so I assumed he was enjoying it. My Aunt Lillie drank beer all the time, or so I thought. She would visit at Nana’s house sometimes in the afternoon when my mom and I used to visit before we moved away. Lillie would bring big bottles of beer and I would sit on my Nana’s lap and have a tiny glass with some beer in it. I did not like the taste of it, or the smell, but was so proud to share in a grownup ritual. It almost made me feel like their equal. There would be tea and cake and lots of laughter and Lillie would play “Honkey Tonk” piano and she would smoke a cigarette. I loved listening to her music and was always astonished to see a lady smoking a cigarette. Just being in the presence of Aunt Lillie was an adventure.

This day would also end with music and singing. Nearly every visit to Nana’s house ended with the family standing around the piano singing to the tunes played by my Aunt Clara. We would sing late into the night and I would fall asleep in the car on the way home. My poor dad would have to lug me and my little sister up the stairs to our third floor apartment. I loved the way he would bounce us playing “Hippity Hoppity” all the way up the stairs, while my mom would scold him for waking us. My father had three jobs to support all of us; we were a family of six. I did not get to see very much of him in those days. This ritual was one of the few times I would feel his strong arms around me and I can still feel the secure and safe feeling it gave me.

With my stomach full of hot dogs and corn on the cob, I followed John to some new excitement that was happening in the street in front of the house. It was fireworks and it was dazzling. I had never seen anything like it before. Sparklers were passed out to us children with strict instructions for proper use which caused me to become somewhat fearful, but with help and urging from one of my older sisters, I got the knack of it and before long had used up all of mine. I was contemplating finding John to beg one of his when I heard him scream out with an earth shattering shriek. He had burned his mouth on a toasted marshmallow. John used to set his marshmallows on fire and then blow them out after they had burned to a crisp. He liked them that way. This time it was his mouth that had been burned to a crisp. His dad, my uncle Jack, was consoling his son, when as if John’s burned mouth had been a bad omen; the sky suddenly turned black, lightening came crashing around us and we were all caught in a downpour. The men carried the tables and chairs and food into the garage and the party continued. I recall being puzzled by the fact that my mother made me change out of my rain soaked bathing suit into dry clothes. It seemed silly to me because I had been playing for hours under the sprinkler in my wet bathing suit and that had not been a problem. I came to the conclusion that rain water was far more unhealthy than sprinkler water. Of course my young mind could not comprehend that the late hour of the day had something to do with my mother’s decision. As soon as I was changed into a long sleeve polo shirt and overalls, I of course ran to follow John who was exploring all the damp dark corners of the garage. As usual he was being cautioned to stay away from wherever it was he was going. True to his nature, he ignored all the warnings and naturally I trailed along behind him. He informed me that he was searching for “Old Timer”, and insisted that I be very quiet because he really wanted to find him. Old Timer was the name of a large turtle that my sisters had found when they were little and had made into a pet. I had no memory of Old Timer, but had heard a story about the turtle once biting my mom’s big toe because she had put red nail polish on her toenails. They used to feed the turtle chop meat and he mistook my mom’s toe nail for his dinner. One day the turtle just disappeared. John boasted that he did remember Old Timer and he was sure the turtle was hibernating and he was determined to find it. I felt sure that since I had never seen Old Timer, if John did find him, it would not be a pretty sight, so I decided to leave my only boy cousin alone for a change and I went into the kitchen to spend time with our Nana. I am sure John was pleased not to have his “pain in the butt” little sissy girl cousin tagging after him for a change.

The kitchen was warm and cozy and Nana was taking something that smelled very good out of the oven. I happily thought of tasting it, whatever it was, but my sleepy eyes told me that the “Sand Man” was on his way and the day would soon be over. Before long, the car would be bringing us back to my city apartment where there would be nothing left to do for this day, but to go to sleep. I am sure I slept well that night, for it had been quite a day for me. I can’t recall if we had our gathering around the piano that night or if I stayed awake long enough even to taste whatever it was that came out of Nana’s oven.

As I put my day dreaming aside this morning and found myself back at the Scott Road beach access, I looked once more out to sea, and there was a dolphin; Just one lone dolphin, lazily feeding. I wondered how it came to be so far behind its friends who had passed my way a half hour ago. Just what could that dolphin been thinking as it meandered along? Could he or she also be remembering a past summer day when the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly? Knee deep into the surf, I stood for a long time watching the dolphin that seemed to sense me. Together we lingered, sharing the ocean maybe forty feet apart. I wondered if this indeed was a different dolphin or was it one that chose to swim back with me. Was it reading my thoughts? Was it enjoying my reminiscing? I hope you did

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