Hope doesn’t always spring eternal, so the promise of spring is essential. But it is at this very time of year where the ocean pulls some fast ones. I always remind myself that Ray and Juanita’s house fell in on March 31, Juanita’s birthday. Just when you think you have snuck out of winter unscathed, ready for flowers and birdsong, comes the old Washaway smackdown.
Here’s what I will call the Yellow Compound at what, until recently, was not the end of Spruce Street, on March 3.
It’s every salvager for himself. And you know a tree hugger like me loves recycling. My quarrel is that, after salvaging the scrap aluminum, there is, as in any industry, waste product, that which cannot be turned into cash. Therefore, you have the strategically arranged, heart-stomping garbage piles. Maybe I should emphasize that the beach’s name is misleading. It doesn’t all “Wash Away.” It goes into THE OCEAN. Where, like, fish live. Not only the wise and beautiful enormous creatures, but the ones that you and I eat. Please make a note of it.
Things have been eroding pretty seriously, all of a sudden, just south of me. “We haven’t lost anything!” my neighbors whisper, guiltily. But while a relief, I feel the secondhand dread that accompanies a friend with cancer: this is not my doom, but when will the shoe drop?
You’ll recall this big brown barn/storage shed on March 6.
And then there is the adorable A-frame, once owned by a cute old couple, then looted, then bequeathed to one of my least favorite “salvagers”, now festooned with piles of crap insulation in the back , and about to fall in the ocean. Easy come, easy go, no?
I’m thinking about the dashed hope of spring, because it was a year ago today I donated my bone marrow to my Mom. All I was thinking about, at the time, was me, me, me, I’m sorry to say. Fear: fear of hospitals, of doctors “harvesting” a “spongy red liquid containing stem cells” with hollow needles from my spine. Would it hurt? It never occurred to me that my inconvenience would not save the day.
I will say that the dread was worse than the actual experience, probably a good life lesson, and John Hopkins’s drugs were excellent. I wish I had been braver, or more selfless, with what, now, I’m pretty proud of.
Too bad she died anyway. “I don’t think it was you,” my Dad told me today.
With or without my endorsement, let the rites of spring begin. You’ll see that there are a lot of pictures of dogs here. Coincidence. I don’t hire the talent, I just shoot ’em.