Im back from my short beach trip. Unfortunately, I havent had time to read or write much yet. Actually, I think I only finished 20 pages of Seamus Heaneys Collected Poem while at the beach.
Now I remember why I didnt become a writer or go beyond my Masters in school. Given my druthers, Id rather be doing things other than reading or writing. When I had to choose between going away for a free doctor’s degree, thanks to the G.I. Bill, or spending my summers with my kids, there was never any real choice.
So, I spent the week walking the beach in 80 degree sunshine, building sandcastles, throwing Frisbees to Skye, watching Mariner’s baseball, watching sunsets, and talking to a two-year old who, blessedly, still finds his grandpa funny.
As the plaque on the motel wall read: Theres no such thing as a bad day at the beach. Its hard to disagree with that, even when youre dragged to the Outlet Stores and end up buying only a bag of frog candy and an inexpensive Christmas ornament.
I even managed to avoid reading a newspaper or watching a news program all week. Its amazing how simply doing that can mellow me out. My blood pressure must have dropped right off the end of the scale in less than a week.
Faced with working in the garden or reading and writing tomorrow, though, I should be up with a new entry shortly, finishing up the discussion of Heaney that Diane and I started a few weeks ago.