Starting the week at the beach. Although I have yet to see the beach. No waves. No sand. No boardwalk. No Funland. Dad doesn’t do the ocean, the boardwalk, Funland any more. Well, he never did any of them much, certainly not Funland, a beeping, blaring, banging menagerie of games and rides. I rode the teacups there as a kid and had to hold onto the park bench for an hour just to get my bearings. I swore never again. And have never again.
We toil and tinker here in an 11-street neighborhood wedged between the bustling Route 1 and the bucolic bay. Dogs, a lot of dogs. Bicyclists. A few scooters. Walkers, a lot of walkers. A lot of rabbits. And birds. A nice breeze off the bay. We push Dad in a wheelchair, around the block, down to his house, feed the wildlife and stroll home. Dad bundled in down jackets. We sweat through T-shirts. Life.
We are heading up the road in a bit. A doctor’s appointment. Another doctor’s appointment. I’ll tag team with Joe. He and Dad will come south to the beach and I’ll go west home. Saratoga looming, but a long way from getting there. Dad, the man who introduced Saratoga to us so many years ago, holds our attention on a quiet Monday morning.
Make the most of your life. It goes fast.
