beach house

It is not a fancy house. It is not a big house. There is no swimming pool or brightly hued exterior. The furniture is knotty pine 1970's discards mixed with Miami Vice era white formica. The shower and tubs are the same harvest gold insert they've been for at least 25 years. The stove is still electric and the dishwasher was only added in the last few years. The old wood desk has sat by the side door manning the entrance for as long as I can remember. In fact the whole place has that feel of abandoned college dorm furniture meets summer rental. What does set this beige sided structure apart from say the bright orange monstrosity down the road is the fact that it sits on stilts in the middle of a sand dune facing the Atlantic Ocean. Climbing the steps to the porch one is smacked in the face with the view of sea, sand, and surf. The kudzu creeps through the sand while the sea oats wave in the salty wind. The weathered dock leading to paradise is old, creaky, and very splintery. The meeting place in the middle still holds memories from past margarita nights. This house, this special place has been my home away from home for 27 years. Every August I have made the trek to this beach, my beach to restore my senses or lose sight of them depending on the company. I do not own the house, in fact that honor belongs to Carol in Boca, but for one week a year it is mine. My respite. My getaway from normal life, stress, what have you. The house has hosted many a family member, friend, dog, even a shot gun bride. It has withstood countless hurricanes and heat spells. It has remained in the same hands through death and in my hands even through my parent's divorce. Like the ocean claiming the beach, I claim this house. I will not let go. I will work my tail off in order to pay the steep weekly rate. All worth it for this little slice of time where I can let go, not shower, eat shrimp until I'm sick, read for hours and best of all share it with my little family and the friends I love. The memories this house has cultivated over the years is what stays with me and brings us back each summer. Laughter and love all lulled by the sound of crashing waves. Salt air mixed with the briny scent of the ocean floods the senses as soon as we open the car doors. Shaking off the midwest pace and slowing down to a southern crawl rejuvenates my soul and I am loathe to leave. Alas the end approaches and I feel my gears starting to wind up again. I am sunburned, sandy, and hair like straw, but I am happy. I have spent the week with people I love and my heart is full again. Best of all, I know this modest cottage will be waiting for me in exactly 365 days when I can reclaim it as mine if only for a short time. Good afternoon world.