This past weekend, I met my family down at our beach house for a few days. All my life, our place at the beach has been my favorite spot in the entire world. My grandparents bought it before I was born and I’ve been to it every summer of my life. I feel like I know it so well that it’s kind of like a physical part of my past, a concrete and tangible artifact of my childhood.
My grandmother painstakingly decorated it with conch shell-patterned wall paper, ceramic seagulls on the mantelpiece and small coasters scattered around sporting phrases like, “Life’s a beach!” Now that my grandmother has Alzheimer’s and no longer remembers me, these small little knickknacks remind me of my time spent growing up with her and her presence in my past. Among those lobster-printed dishtowels and bouquets of dried flowers is an overwhelming sense of love and comfort, a reminder of family and home and a sense of belonging to something special.
It’s kind of strange being back in a place so tied to your past when your present is so different. Every time I walk back into my beach house and smell that familiar scent of salt and sun — the smell of a long day spent outdoors — I could be 6 years old again, learning to ride my bike outside and looking nervously behind me to make sure my parents were still there. I could be 13, crying in the bedroom I always stayed in with the pink wallpaper because my seventh-grade boyfriend just called to break up with me. I could be 16, sneaking old beer out of the refrigerator with my best friend and nervously waiting to see if the other would drink it. Or I could be 18, that summer before college when I realized that I was finally growing up — that summer my parents fought endlessly and I began to understand that things do not always end up the way you thought they would.
There’s a picture framed in my parent’s house of me and my grandmother sitting on the couch at the beach, me in my Easter dress and her holding me in her arms. I’m probably about 5 years old and look utterly content in the way that only a child can be, easily pleased with any small thing that comes their way. My grandmother is half-laughing and smiling into the camera, her face that so resembles my own easy-going and relaxed face.
I miss that version of my Grams, the big-hearted Southern lady who could name every flower that grows on the East Coast and was always cooking something that was probably terrible for you but tasted wonderful. We share the same first and last names and I always felt a special connection to her
It’s hard for me to see her as she is now, in a nursing home and confused, but in spite of this she remains one of the happiest and brightest people I have ever met. She still loves flowers and likes to look out of her window, and I like to think that even though she may not recognize me, she still loves me and understands that I am someone special to her.
The biggest, most frightening thing about growing up is realizing that what you always took for granted in the past does not always follow you into your present. But no matter what — no matter where I go or what I end up doing — I’ll still always have those memories, those reminders of love and comfort that will always be a part of me. I can always go back to the beach and remember how things used to be, that familiarity propelling me forward into all that I cannot see.
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