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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Why I can’t turn in my favorite old beach chair by J. G. Fabiano The one thing that surprises me most about growing old is that I don’t feel any different inside. I know I am growing old every time I take a shower and find a few more hairs in the drain and a few less on my head. I also see what used to be a strong, healthy body in the mirror beginning to sag and turn gray. I understand there is absolutely nothing I can do about getting older but why does my mind have to stay forever young while my body succumbs to time? Can anyone guess I just went past another birthday? This one felt like every other, with the exception of one birthday gift. My sister-in-law decided it was time I sat my butt down on a newer and better beach chair. It has a higher back, was made of plastic and, unlike my old beach chair, it had over 12 different settings for maximum comfort. For some reason this gift represented everything I did not want, because I was getting old. To understand these feelings it is important to go back to the time when I first purchased my only favorite chair. My wife and I were shopping at Bradlees in Newington. Back then you had to go to New Hampshire or up to Portland to buy anything. It had nothing to do with how much things cost. There simply weren’t any local stores back in the early 1980’s where you could buy a beach chair. I remember we wandered around the store for about an hour picking up things we needed when I chanced upon a small display of summer clearance items. It must have been September because I remember it being cool and my beach days for the year were behind me. There happened to be a few beach chairs on display and I noticed a blue one on the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a bit stained and had a small tear in the fabric. I asked a clerk if she would give me a deal on it since it was damaged and she told me she would sell it to me for half price. Wow! I thought. Even if it only lasted me through one season it would still be a great deal at only $5. I took the chair back to my wife like a kid with a new toy and, within the hour, it was in the trunk of our car and we were on our way home. When I got home I left my chair, still wrapped in its plastic cocoon, on a nail under the deck, to be retrieved next spring and used throughout the summer of 1981. I loved that chair. It was light and it had a strap that would let me carry it over my shoulder to whatever beach I went. Of course, my favorite was Long Sands, were I could park myself where the ocean meets the shore and simply observe the entire goings on around me. For the next 20 years that $5 chair cradled my aging and ever expanding butt as I staked my annual summer claim at the beach. Unlike some people I never felt like I owned my little patch of beach, I just got to use it for a while. I remember groups of people who would carve off a whole section of beach to themselves and dare anybody to come too close. I’ve also seen the loners who wouldn’t go on the beach, as if they were afraid to get sand between their toes, but would stay up on the blacktopped path and look out at the ocean, ignoring the passing tide of human traffic. It was the old people I enjoyed watching the most. Especially the couples who would plant themselves side by side in their beach chairs and pass away a whole day together. One of my favorite memories is every time I see a new beach kid born. This usually involves a young father taking his infant son or daughter down to the water to dip them playfully in the waves. At this stage the little mite is still smiling because, what could possibly go wrong? They are safe in the hands of almighty Zeus. Back onshore the rest of the family watches in deep apprehension. Especially mom who knows very well that dad is not Zeus. The expression on her face always betrays her thoughts and her thoughts are always the same. Usually something like: If he hurts my baby I’ll drown him myself. At last the moment of truth comes. The father is waist deep in the ocean and bobbing up and down with the bigger swells, trying not to fall over but, he perseveres because this is a bonding moment between himself and his child that he wants to remember for the rest of his life. The child is often laughing at this stage because he or she is still safe and bobbing up and down and catching the occasional tickle of spray. Then, in one sudden movement the father bends his knees and drops himself and his child down into the water until both are completely submerged. In less than second both bob up again and the father's face is transformed into an expression of gleeful anticipation. The child, on the other hand, has the expression of a deer caught in the headlights. The child has absolutely no idea what just happened except that it got very cold and dark and he/she couldn't breathe. In that moment of truth the child will decide whether they like the ocean or not whether it will be a beach kid. If there's a smile it is the beginning of a lifelong love affair with the beach. If there's a laugh, even better, this is a kid who will eat sand, chase crabs, build sand castles and hurl themselves into the waves with gleeful abandon. If there's a scream or protest, a cry of betrayal, a plaintive wail of abandonment then this is a kid who is not only never going near the ocean again but who will probably grow up to be a mall rat. The only thing that surprises me is that, no matter how many times I have witnessed this saltwater baptism, I have never ceased to be entertained by it. All that has changed is that I have grown old on the outside. However, now I have a newer, shinier beach chair, in a plastic wrapper, hanging on a nail in the garage and I can’t bear to take it down and take it to the beach. So, here I sit on my old and dilapidated $5 beach chair and I think to myself: 'One more summer.' THE END
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