Something about the beach glass that triggers a beach full of memories

Something about the beach glass that triggers a beach full of memories
                        
All that glitters is not litter. This is especially true when it comes to what the ocean washes ashore. It’s constant and persistent. I mean, how can a person stop it? It’d be like telling the sky to quit raining. My wife loves the beach more than almost anything else and when she’s of a mind to get back, well, we’re there. I was coming off the last of a grueling stretch of midnight shifts and she was waiting for me when I got home, just after dawn. And she looked, well, beachy keen, dressed in layers of lovely pastels, all set to hit the highway for the jaunt to the coast. I have no idea how long she’d been up, getting ready for her return to her favorite place, but she looked fantastic, Me? It didn’t take me long to throw on a ragged t-shirt and ratty shorts, step into a pair of ancient Reeboks and pack the cooler. I’m pretty sure I looked as if I’d dressed in a dirty-clothes hamper, but at least I was behind the wheel on time. With my wife, timing is everything. I’ve learned that over the years and when I’m prompt, she’s happy. I think she thought I’d be late for our wedding, though she’s never admitted as much. Still, it was close. Our oceanfront home on the Outer Banks was alive that whole weekend, so many friends showing up from far and wide and I was having the best time just hanging out with them, sharing stories and memories and laughter and love. It was almost as I’d envisioned it back in the summer of 2007 when I surprised her by saying, “You know what? I think we should get married on the beach in October.” This after a seemingly endless engagement, one that had begun with her saying “yes” in 1990 and has lasted until I finally realized that I actually wanted to be her husband, forever and ever, amen. Her immediate response to my idea was, well, less than enthusiastic. “No,” she said, frowning. “There’s not enough time.” I smiled. “Yes,” I said, smiling. “This is the perfect time.” And that was it. By the next morning, she was into it, in full wedding mode: websites and plans and lists and images and schedules and spreadsheets and florists and hotels and spas and … well, she had it wired. “We can do this,” she said. “We will do this.” Me? I had the fun part. I got to call everyone and say, “Are you sitting down? We’re getting married. No, I’m serious. Stop crying. We really hope you can be here.” The vision I had was quite simple. Leave it to my fiancée to make it happen the way she wanted it to be. That’s a lesson I’d learned from my father. “I can take any of your mischief, your foul language, your Bs when you should be earning As,” Dad said. “But if you ever, and I mean ever, disappoint your mother, well …” The rest went unsaid, but I got the message. And then, the worst thing happened. Less than three weeks before we were to be married, her father died. After all her hard work, after all her planning, after all her happiness and expectations, fate flipped a fatal card and there we were, just devastated. My fiancee’s father had always liked me, I had no doubts on that score. And guess how many times he asked something like, “Mike, isn’t it time I got to walk my daughter down the aisle?” Never happened. Not once. He saw how we good we were together and, I hope, understood it would happen when the time was right. To have him die so close to our wedding … It was just the worst. “Mike,” he’d said the last time we spoke, “I’m invited for the week, but I might stay a month,” His airline ticket was in the pocket of his best suit coat when it came time to inventory his things, to clean his house and get things ready for what we called “a celebration of life.” I don’t know much, but here’s one thing I’ll take to my grave. When he got to heaven, he pushed past St. Peter and said to God, “Hey, I know I’m new here, but you’re going to do one thing for me and I that’s the end of it. No discussion!” And so it came to pass that on Monday, Oct. 22, 2007, the skies above Kitty Hawk were bright blue, the temperature was in the low 80s and friends and family witnessed the best day of my life. “Thanks, Clarence,” I said, knowing that the perfect conditions were his wedding gift to his daughter. And whenever we get back to the coast, I’m reminded of his spirit and his life-affirming goodness. I mean, it could have been hideous, hurricane winds or torrential downpours and it could have been downright chilly on that stretch of sand. Instead, we shared memories with everyone who made it to that place on that day. So I’m always grateful when we get a pretty beach day. Such was the case last Sunday when we got ourselves settled around 9:30 in the morning. My wife set off, almost immediately, in search of beach glass. I’ve never understood her fascination with those shards of broken bottles that she’s collected for years and usually, I say something stupid like, “You know that’s just a lot of litter, right?” And my wife patiently explains to me the difference between sea glass and beach glass and how the rounded edges mean they’ve been tossed by the waves for decades and how difficult it can be to find even a single piece. So instead of saying something like, “looks like someone smashed a Heineken bottle last night,” this time I walked with her, savoring our time together. That’s kind of what marriage is like, right? Learning as you go? As the morning sun cast its golden light on the shoreline detritus, I kept looking offshore, enjoying the pelicans and the dolphins, the rolling waves and the occasional pleasure craft splashing its way through the surf. Meanwhile, my wife, with a gold-miner’s intense scrutiny, studied the shore for beach glass hidden amid the reddish kelp and broken shells and still-soggy driftwood. And then it happened. As I turned from the water and stared at the sand, quite by accident I saw something glittering. Remember, I’d not only never seen a piece of beach glass, I’d mocked the whole exercise as silly, saying, “You can buy 40 pieces for three bucks at that tacky souvenir place down the road.” But I wanted this piece for her. “There,” I said, pointing at it. “There’s one.” Oh, my wife said it was her favorite color and that I’d been a big help, but I knew better. I’d just got lucky. And then she said something that threw it all in a different light. “You know that container I put the beach glass in at our house?” she asked. I nodded and kept walking, staring at the sun-glistening whitecaps. “Our wedding flowers,” she said, “were in that at our reception. You didn’t know that, did you?” “No,” I said. “I didn’t. Now, though, it all makes sense.” Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. His Facebook page might interest you, as well.


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