NaNo 2019: Summer in the City

An excerpt from NaNoWriMo 2019.

Dear Mom,

In summers you would take us to the beach. I remember it was usually on a Wednesday. I’m not sure why that was the day of choice. Maybe it lined up with Aunt Lisa’s schedule? Or it was the least busy? Or you regularly took that day off of work? I have no idea.

Looking back now, I can appreciate what an ordeal it is to lug three (at the time) kids to the beach who will be whining all day about their hunger.

Today, I just want to get to the beach. I bring a bunch of water, some snacks in a bag or cooler, and a towel. That’s it. But with kids it’s a whole other animal.

I remember you making egg salad for beach days. I’m not sure why that was the sandwich of choice for you. I mean, I’m not complaining, but I feel like peanut butter and jelly would’ve been a lot less work.

I’d stand in the kitchen by the pointless sliding door to watch you make it after I helped peel eggs. I marveled at the way you’d cut the eggs in your hand, back in the days before we had egg slicers. How could you cut up the egg in such small chunks and not cut your hand? I didn’t understand. I guess it was something grownups could do.

The morning California sun would pour in the kitchen bay window. You wore a cover up over your bathing suit, and flip flops. Always flip flops. The season didn’t matter. The destination didn’t matter. You’d wear flip flops just around the house.

I would watch as you’d dump a bunch of mayonnaise in the bowl, never measuring the amount. You’d grind some pepper into the bowl, and squirt some mustard in. “Yuck. I hate mustard,” I’d tell you, not in a way that was disrespectful, just a statement of my preferences.

“You can’t taste it Janae. It helps the flavor. You can’t make egg salad without mustard.”

Occasionally, you’d stop to taste test your creation. This was your measurement. None of this “1/2 cup mayonnaise per 10 eggs” nonsense. Only, “How does it taste?”

Sometimes, you’d add more mayonnaise if needed. Most of the time, you used too much mayonnaise. As a grownup, I believe that’s a thing. I don’t think you believe it’s a thing, even at this point. You love mayonnaise.

You’d pull the wood cutting board out from below the counter, above the silverware drawer. Even then, I could tell the wood was soft and probably not very sanitary. Often, after you used it, you’d pull it out, rinse it, and then put the cutting board back in its slot, still wet. That couldn’t have been good. I guess if you were extra thorough, you’d give it a quick wipe with a damp, mildewy dish towel. I still don’t use this cutting board when I go home. I don’t trust it.

You effortlessly scooped large amounts of egg salad onto the Roman Split Top Wheat bread. You’d flatten it with a spoon, and then place another slice of bread on top. Wide eyed, I’d watch you take a knife and cut the soft bread diagonally in perfect halves. I wondered when I’d be able to cut a sandwich like you did.

To this day, I still don’t think my sandwiches look as good.

I feel like it’s important to note that you didn’t play into any of this “cut off the crust” nonsense like other parents did. Grandpa insisted that the crust was the best part. “It’s good for you,” he’d declare. I don’t think there’s anything particularly nutritious about the crust of bread, but grandpa’s word was law, so we ate it.

We’d load up the car:

• Ice chest (full of drinks and sandwiches)
• Folding beach chairs
• Towels
• A large blanket
• Sunblock

We’d make the long drive to Newport Beach before Aunt Lisa moved to Huntington.

I remember the rows upon rows of beach houses. The short streets ran perpendicular to the coastline, and parking was free if we could find it, which we usually did.

Sometimes, we had to make multiple trips to and from the car, so Newport was the best option. The haul from the parking lot to the sand at Huntington was a trek.

Once we got to the beach, you’d slather us in sunblock. In those days, all we had was the thick white cream—not the convenient spray-on kind. You were so diligent about making sure we were protected from sunburn. Granted, sunburns still happened (I’m not sure how great you were about re-application when we spent all day in the water), but you made an effort.

You certainly made more effort for our skin safety than you did for your own. Looking back, I feel like you got roasted every time we went to the beach. Every. Time. I especially remember your cheeks, forehead, and shoulders being tomato red every night we got home from the beach. Your shoulders grew increasingly freckled over the years. 

A couple of times, you even gave yourself sun stroke. You think you’d learn at some point, but no. You’d suffer through it from lack of self-care.

I guess the patterns were always there, of you taking care of us and not yourself—making sure we needed you, but neglecting yourself in the process. I think a lot of moms struggle with this.

Anyway, after being layered in the 50 SPF Banana Boat sunblock, we’d spend all day in the water. We would sometimes play in the sand. I’d find sand dollars. We would jump in the waves and ride boogie boards—especially the boys. We loved the water. I loved the water.

We’d come in and eat, even if we weren’t hungry. To this day, I don’t get hungry at the beach, but I still bring food. Old habits die hard, I guess.

We sat on the blanket, towels around our shoulders, hair slicked back with sea water, wet hands holding egg salad sandwiches. 

This was summer.

We’d plunge our hands into the Dorito bag, too. Now, I wonder if we got all the chips wet, but hopefully not. You’d always bring an entire roll of paper towels, and an extra grocery bag to collect our trash. You weren’t especially considerate of the environment (paper plates and plastic baggies were and still are a regular part of your grocery purchases), but you were no litter bug. We’d pack our trash out.

You made us pile back into the car around 1 or 2 in the afternoon because of LA traffic. We may have managed to make it to 3pm in those days. Who knows?

But before we were allowed back in your car, we had to shower. Boy did we have to shower. You would thoroughly spray us down with those public outdoor showers. You even made us open up our bottoms or bathing suit backs to let the water rinse down inside our suits. We couldn’t have sand just falling out of our britches and getting all over the car. And I’ll tell you what: after vacuuming sand out of my car as an adult, I respect the icy cold torture you made us go through.

That shower water was way colder than the ocean water. Especially since we were already dry and warmed from the sun. You basically were re-wetting us. We'd shiver as we waited to get into the car.

You’d spray our feet and the flip flops on our feet so we wouldn’t walk sand into the car either. And we had to shake out the towels vigorously.

If the towels were sufficiently sand-free, you’d lay them across the car seats so we could sit our wet bathing suits on them, preventing too much wetness from soaking into the car.

You’d drive us home while the sun was still high in the sky. Wiped out from a day of the sun beating down on us while we were running, splashing, and playing with our cousins, we all fell asleep in the car.

That night, if you were burned, you’d cover yourself in green aloe vera gel, or Soothe-a-Cain. I hated that stuff. To my childhood skin, it burned. It didn’t feel like relief at all. And the menthol smell was too much.

Even after all our rinsing and shaking out at the beach, we somehow still ended up with sand on us and had to take baths. And the bath would end up with a thick ring of sand around the drain.

I know those day trips were a big ordeal. A long drive two ways. A lot of stuff to haul in and out. Preparing and packing food and snacks. But they made the best memories—some of my most favorite to look back on.

Maybe youth is wasted on the young. I miss the long days of sand, ocean, and egg salad sandwiches. Thanks for these rosy summer memories, mom.