42 Steps Away

I hopped on a old, worn down, loved bike and pedaled around the corner away from Aunt Martha and Uncle Ira’s Nantucket house. Walking down the sandy path, Martha reminded me to be careful of the of the poison ivy creeping into the path like ants on a picnic blanket. Ira sprayed the poison ivy killing spray everywhere, making sure it would all be gone by the end of summer. My favorite smell tickled my nose. Breathing deeply, I smelled it again- Rosa Rugosa and the ocean, the smell of summer fun. Someone could make a fortune if they bottled it. 1

The first of today’s big decisions was just ahead: the high road or the low? My younger, at that time still little, sister caught up to me. “Race you,” she yelled, and we were off. Excitement and pure happiness in the form of children ran down the paths. Arriving in unison, we took off our sneakers and started walking down the steps. We walked slowly, trying to count the steps; we knew there were forty-two but never managed to count them correctly. We tried to run over the sandy hill, slipping in the warm beach sand, and felt the cool ocean breeze as though it was picking us up and leaving us in the perfect place. Like a mother calling her children, the ocean called us forward. We kept running, threw our clothes on the sand and raced to the ocean. 2

Martha, Ira and my parents arrived shortly after and arranged the chairs and towels in the just the right spot for a perfect beach afternoon. The afternoon passed as if we were playing music in double time. Before we knew we had blinked, the sun was setting and the cool breeze was getting colder. The curtains were closing on an afternoon of fun in the water, sand castles and reading on the beach. We dried off, packed our backpacks and turned to climb over the sandy hill and up the steps again. This time, we walked slowly, holding on to each second by the very last thread. 3

Mom and Dad had left earlier to prepare for the evening and we arrived to the smells of picnic flowing from the kitchen windows. A quick outdoor shower to rinse the sand off, fresh clothes and we left again. The same old, worn, loved bikes; the same route; and the same beach, but a new scene. Arriving at the beach, we saw more people than we could count, a dramatic change from the quiet of the afternoon. Still able to find a perfect spot atop the hill, we laid out our towels and took out the picnic food. With a bang louder than the ferry horn, the fireworks began. Our quiet afternoon hide-out was now a beautiful, popular celebration. 4

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*update* the so far final edited version:6

I hop on a old, worn down, beloved bike and pedal around the corner away from Aunt Martha and Uncle Ira’s Nantucket house. Walking down the sandy path, Martha reminds me to be careful of the of the poison ivy creeping into the path like ants on a picnic blanket. Ira sprays the poison ivy killing spray everywhere, making sure it will all be gone by the end of summer. My favorite smell tickles my nose. Breathing deeply, the scent engulfs my face and flows into my nose- Rosa Rugosa and the ocean, the smell of summer fun. 7

The first of today’s big decisions is just ahead: the high road or the low? My younger sister, Nadia, catches up to me. “Race you,” she yells, and we are off, running and tumbling down the sandy paths, excitement and pure childish happiness. Arriving in unison, we take off our sneakers and walk down the steps. We walk slowly, trying to count the steps; we know there were forty-two but never manage to count them correctly. We try to run over the sandy hill, feet slipping in the warm beach sand, and feel the cool ocean breeze as though it was picking us up and pushing us forward towards our destination. Like a mother calling her children, the ocean calls us forward. We keep running, throw our clothes on the sand and race to the ocean. 8

Martha, Ira and my parents arrived shortly after and arranged the chairs and towels in the just the right spot for a perfect beach afternoon. The afternoon passed as if we were playing music in double time. Before we knew we had blinked, the sun was setting and the cool breeze was getting colder. The curtains were closing on an afternoon of fun in the water, sand castles and reading on the beach. We dried off, packed our backpacks and turned to climb over the sandy hill and up the steps again. This time, we walked slowly, holding on to each second by the very last thread. 9

Mom and Dad had left earlier to prepare for the evening and we arrived to the smells of picnic flowing from the kitchen windows. A quick outdoor shower to rinse the sand off, fresh clothes and we left again. The same old, worn, loved bikes; the same route; and the same beach, but a new scene. Arriving at the beach, we saw more people than we could count, a dramatic change from the quiet of the afternoon. Still able to find a perfect spot atop the hill, we laid out our towels and took out the picnic food. With a bang louder than the ferry horn, the fireworks began. Our quiet afternoon hide-out was now a beautiful, popular celebration. 10