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Running on About Beach Week

Vivian Lawry

Every summer for the last twenty-six years, I’ve rented a vacation house to gather family from five states for a week of together time, and although it’s changed a bit—what with Mom and my sister-in-law dying, grandchildren aging into school schedules that need to be accommodated, and my sister and brother-in-law no longer coming, even though we tried to be welcoming, all holding hands while they blessed meals, and they still came after my daughter married a small, quiet Chinese man, having searched the Bible without finding anything against interracial marriage (but I suspect they don’t come now because my brother-in-law is short, enormously round, and probably not comfortable with my now-divorced daughter’s current partner, who is quiet, six-five, muscular, and Black, and his fourteen-year-old son, who is just as big), and I will miss my sister, though it’s probably just as well, since my grandson’s come out as gay, and their “love the sinner, not the sin” attitude plucks my last nerve—so we’re twelve now, but everything else is the same: I rent the place, pay for groceries (not wanting finances to burden anyone), and provide seasonings, oil, plastic bags, foil, and food for the first dinner and breakfast, and towels for those flying instead of driving, and—after I survive the drive, the backup at the Bay Bridge, and stop-and-go traffic the last miles before town—arriving to unload the masses of food supplies plus stuff everyone will use (soap, TP, tissues for every bathroom, paper towels, napkins, laundry detergent, fabric softener, dish soap, etc.), which makes me long for the ease of the two years I rented in Colorado, where so much was provided (because in-season renters flew in from all over with nothing much but skis and clothes)—but now that I think of it, even there, I had to allocate bedrooms and reorganize the kitchen (previous renters always leave kitchens a shambles), and every year I collapse, optimistically expecting everything to be perfect, only to be slapped with reality when all the knives are dull, the nonstick cookware sticks, half the mattresses are lumpy and the other half sag, and we can only hope there are still no bedbugs, all of which is obvious the first night, but then we’ll discover that the kayaks have no paddles, the bicycles are sea-salt-rusted, the tires low, and beach passes have doubled in cost since last year and everyone will agree that’s outrageous, and big as the house is, there’s never enough off-street parking, and whoever springs for a street pass will announce, repeatedly, that “it’s okay, just less money for shopping,” and as the week wears on, the noise level will climb ever higher as we commiserate over sunburns, jellyfish stings, and shark sightings, planning for a possible hurricane evacuation, but for sure, someone will leave one of my beach towels on the beach, and everyone’s true colors will shine bright and bold, my husband talking with everyone about everything from sports to politics to books while largely housebound by the restrictions of age, and everyone is solicitous and helpful, super aware that we are now old—heaven forbid they should say elderly—especially our oldest daughter, who’s sliding into a mothering role, reminding us to drink water and be aware of our limits, and she is as loving as her sisters, in spite of dominating every conversation—talking over others and changing the direction, and thank goodness she’s funny—and my youngest daughter will talk constantly about missing her dogs and ask (yet again) why I couldn’t have rented a place that allows pets (as if any rental would allow 65- and 80-pound boxers), and everyone will look furtively at the recovering-alcoholic sister, fearing she’ll fall off the wagon while they have beer or wine during lunch out or in their rooms, and every night I’ll shush my son-in-law who yells with and at TV sports late into the night in spite of community quiet hours, so I’ll be awake and aware when my older granddaughter is on the deck, FaceTiming with her current boyfriend back in Colorado, and maybe the talk will be positive (unlike last year with her boyfriend in California when she cried a lot), and day-to-day I will revel in the four grandchildren, their camaraderie and banter, and assume that their joking about being the gay guy, the Black kid, and the Asian chicks will still be funny for all, even in the heat of their cutthroat euchre tournaments that carry over from day to day, and if the past predicts the future, they will frequently ask me to sit in, warming my heart when they argue over who gets me as a partner, and dinners will bump along, two people cooking for all each night, and it will be good, everyone going out of their way to accommodate my dietary restriction, so my unofficial son-in-law who always grills red meat will add a veggie burger, and when the youngest two team up (always pizza night) they’ll include a veggie pizza, and a few broken glasses or dishes are expected in rentals, so no big deal, and over the course of days, when cooks shop for their various dinners, leftovers accumulate (mayo, mustard, ketchup, soy sauce, flour, chocolate, etc.), the week ending with everyone thanking me for making it happen, clearing wastebaskets, stripping bed linens, hugs and kisses all around, and I’ll head out with everything no one else wants—half-boxes of cereal, open bags of snacks, rice, and pasta, open cartons of milk, salad greens, vinegar, and lemons, tons of stuff I already have at home. Leaving the disorder and confusion behind, ready for the quiet of home, I nevertheless wish I could pack up the people along with the memories and the last onion!

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