Save more ta tas

You asked for it, here it is: http://www.savethetatas.com for all kinds of stickers and other fun stuff!

Waves of Mercy

My father loved the beach. I didn’t growing up, but I was in denial. I’ve never wanted to be like my father. He was harsh, cold, sometimes even violent, and we lived in fear of his mood swings and alcohol induced rage. I am a lot like him, you see, and I don’t like it one bit. Inside of me there is something dark and unnamed that reminds me of him; the tendency for moodiness, reticence for affection, selfishness. Of course, he had another side that his family rarely saw. He could be the life of the party. He was funny and liked to pull pranks on his friends. He loved his grandchildren, but his children had too many times felt the sting of his heavy hand and ugliness of his temper to feel truly loved. Our trips to the beach for me were too much about him. I was unable to embrace that vast, roaring ocean as my own. Then he died. Life changed for all of us. In a way we were relieved that we could go on without his controlling eye, but when he left, he took every part of him: the ugly and the funny. I’ve often said you can’t argue with a dead man, even so, I began my long and unfulfilling journey seeking his approval and love. I never found it. I did, however, find the beach.

I discovered a place, courtesy of my brother that holds no ghosts for me. I first went to Salter Path the summer before my senior year of college, several months after my father’s death. At first I didn’t know if I would make it onto Emerald Isle because I have a fear of bridges. When I turned my car right off of Hwy 24 and saw that behemoth bridge that crosses the Intracostal Waterway, my heart stopped, but my mother urged me on and I made it over. How I laugh at that memory. I still don’t like bridges, but now I reserve that fear for the real bridges like those in Charleston or the Chesapeake Bay. In spite of the approach to the island, my first glimpse of the sound and the ocean never fails to take my breath away. One day, my ashes will float on the gentle, rippling waves of Bogue Sound.

My first trip to the beach was most undoubtedly in utero since I was born in August, near the end of the summer. We lived about two hours from the beach and day trips were not unusual. I have seen pictures of my parents and extended family members wearing bathing suits and sitting on picnic tables somewhere between here and the coast. From a very early age I can remember the pull of the waves on my short legs and the feel of tiny shells and sand in my swimsuit. The sea, sun, and sand meld into a magical medicine for my soul. When someone suggests that I go to my “happy place”, I instantly hear the crash of the waves and feel the tickle of beach sand beneath my feet. When I can’t sleep at night, I imagine the soothing rock of the ocean, floating weightlessly in the waves, until rest comes. Most importantly, in embracing my love for the beach, I have forgiven my father. I couldn’t for a long time. I had a lot of my own demons to exorcise and forgiveness stuck in my throat like a peanut butter sandwich. I want to say that with age comes wisdom, but writing that makes me want to roll my eyes! I have learned that we all have our hard things to bear, and while sometimes I think I’ve had more than my share (don’t we all think that?), I have crossed over to the side of understanding the value of those experiences, good and bad. God in His infinite wisdom gave us the promise of mercy that is fresh with each new day, just like the tides. We must show each other that same mercy. Have you ever left something on the beach, maybe a towel or a tee shirt? You thought it was safe high up on the sand, only to find it washed away when you came back for it? I love the beach early in the morning when the sand is hard packed and smooth with no footprints or half eroding sandcastles. Who knows what treasures await after the tide has cleared away the debris and leftovers of a busy summer day. And the winter: my favorite season for a respite at the shore! And so my love affair with the salt air and endless sea continues…..

Save the Ta Tas

I saw a bumper sticker the the other day that made me laugh so hard I snorted Pepsi through my nose. It was a pink ribbon for Breast Cancer Awareness and under the ribbon it read, "Save the Ta Tas".

Biker Chicks Unite

I had a great bike when I was a child. It was a Huffy with a blue glittery banana seat with a sissy bar, and blue and white streamers from the handles. Sometimes I used a white wicker basket to bring bread home from the store. Riding a bike was hard on my street. I grew up on a red dirt road. The road grader would scrape the street and make a ridge on either side. Getting over that ridge on a bicycle was like jumping a storm ditch. If I wasn’t really careful my wheels would get stuck and I would end up in a twisted heap in the sand. I spent a lot of my childhood with my legs covered in pinkish red globs of Metholade. I don’t really know what was in that stuff, but my mother put it on every scrape, cut, or bruise.

For a while my father worked at the DuPpont plant in Wilmington, so we would spend the summer at Wilmington Beach (between Carolina Beach and Kure Beach). He had bought a small lot about three blocks from the ocean and put a two bedroom house trailer on it. I hated going to that trailer. Most kids would have loved it, but not me. My brothers are so much older than me that it was a lot like being an only child. I really had nothing to do. We seldom went down to the ocean because my mother and I didn’t know how to swim. Reading comic books and riding my bike were my only entertainment. I loved riding my bike there because the streets were paved.

For some reason my mother believes that I was not good at riding a bike. I guess she thinks this because of the frequent wipe outs I had in the sand. Sometimes in conversation my mother (randomly) will say, “you never could ride a bike.” This cracks Nick up, so when I’m feeling a little high and mighty, he likes to repeat her mantra. That brings me down to earth in a flash. I wonder whatever happened to that bike?

I'm Royalty Now!

I went to the dentist yesterday for the first step of my coronation. I was so surprised when Dr. Jacobyansky called me last night to make sure that my temporary crown was feeling okay. What great service! If you need a dentist I highly recommend Cross Creek Dental.

Therapy Playground?

I never intended my blog to be a platform for griping, but I have to give a jeer to a business I saw on Friday. This is apparently an addition to the nursing home near Wingate Drive (Cumberland Rd.) The name of the business is Therapy Playground. Anyone who has ever had any type of physical therapy should be offended, because nothing about it involves play, pleasure, or anything remotely recreational. Yes, therapy is good and positive in that it can restore someone to health, but to consider it a playground greatly insults me.