Photo Courtesy of E.A. Wicklund
I grew up around salt water – it’s in my blood. Take me too far inland, and I feel landlocked, trapped, ill at ease. The sound of seagulls is the music of the beach. Their raucous squawking means I’m home. We have an annual reunion at my aunt’s place on the bay; some years almost 80 people come together in a clambake to celebrate our shared heritage. The gulls never miss a chance to pounce on a dropped biscuit or corn cob. Scavengers, they patrol their surf, tolerating those of us who happen to trespass for a while.
Word Count: 100
I’m up at dawn, changing the water on the clams. No one likes any sand in them. The day looks to be a good one – no rain today, just clouds. Wonder how many will come this year. And I wonder how many more years I’ll be around. This is my 90th year; 60th as host. A reunion’s been taking place here at The Point since 1890. This is one tradition we don’t take lightly.
Everything’s set – food’s out, coffee’s on. I hear the sound of tires crunching down the gravel drive. I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Time to welcome everyone home.
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© Erin Leary