Summer Days at the Beach

Today, with temperatures of 102, my dear friend, Gail, and I took to the pool. We were in the water all afternoon, chatting, chatting with others as they came and went. Mostly we had the pool to ourselves. (Why don't I remember a camera?) I am red as a lobster, and very very content. After the pool, we sat in the lawn swing and drank iced decaf, with Jenny Lind and XieXie. 


Memories. My first spring in Cambridge introduced me to the joys of sunbathing on the roof of Comstock Hall, and even more exciting, finding someone with a car who could take me/us to Crane's Beach in Ipswich. It usually was a weekend, and we inevitably sat in snail-like traffic for two hours there (and then back again). When we got to the beach, we would search for a beach-blanket-sized spot. The sand was literally covered in beach blankets, each with its own transistor radio, picnic basket, and, if you were unlucky, three or four kids. We would lather on the baby oil and iodine (which of course would immediately attract a layer of sand) and sit in the sun, with brief forays, picking our way though the blankets and towels, to the sea. I was red as a lobster back then, too. 


I looked up Crane's Beach, and found that today it costs $15 to get in - $25 on weekends. 


There was also a beach that we frequented in Manchester, called Singing Beach, named after the particularly squeaking sound of the sand as it was being walked upon. What did we wear on our feet in those days before flip-flops? I remember burning the soles of my feet on hot days at the beach. Singing Beach now is open to non-residents Monday through Thursday only, at a cost of $25.


Among my fond memories of those beach days is a stop at a fried clam shack. I often order fried clams when they appear on menus, and am always disappointed, for nothing will be as good as those stored in my memory. Howard Johnson's used to have good fried clams, but I bet they're not the same now.