A Good Idea Gets Beached

I wouldn't want to be accused of leaving any of my loyal readers hanging on the edge of a cliff.  I mean "hanging" in the literary sense, not the literal definition.  I owe you the courtesy of revealing  how yesterday ended for me.  In my story of that day, entitled Loving to Write and Writing to Love, I attempted to predict that simply sharing my emotions with my wife would endear her to share her goodies with me.  I also predicted that if my true intentions were discovered, then I'd  likely have a long and restful night's sleep.  Much to my surprise, it seems my dear wife read my story prior to retiring last evening, so the cat was out of the bag.  Suffice to say that I am feeling very rested today.  I have lots of pent up love to dedicate to today's story.

The summer of 2011 was almost one that never was.  Our Eastern Newfoundland weather was more early springlike in July and much of August that they were renamed to Junly and Smogust.  Even the caplin waited weeks longer than normal before hitting our beaches in their annual ritual to mate, sunbathe and to foul the pristine shoreline.  Those fish are no fools.  The calendar means nothing to them.  Mother Nature must first provide the perfect conditions before they will spring into action.  Come to think of it, we humans seem to like doing those same three things that the caplin do.

The beaches near my home were eerily desolate for much of the summer.  Once the warmer weather ascended on us, the beaches were a beehive of activity.  There were sun worshippers covered in baby oil, others donning wide brimmed hats and lotion with a SPF number so high that it could be confused with our national debt.

Any evening that the weather permitted, the local beaches were peppered with small fires.  They were often used to boil the pot of salt water that would become the final resting place of many a lobster and crab.  A bitter irony for these crustaceans that their end was met so close to the ocean and the freedom that it offered.  No outdoor fire is complete without marshmallow being toasted just above the red and orange embers.  Chestnuts roasting on an open fire may be in a famous jingle, but marshmallows toasting on a beach fire elicits a more powerful image for kids of the 20th and 21st centuries.  Chestnuts are just too hard to poke with a stick anyway.

Ultimately, a beach fire provides the warmth and comfort needed on just about every summer night on our enchanted island.  Especially on the ocean's edge, the night air is refreshingly cool and salty in flavour.  The darkness of the night is made pitch black by the flickering light from the flames.  It becomes so peaceful and tranquil that it lends perfectly to cuddling with your young kids, your partner, or everyone all at once.  These memories become etched in the mind and forever bring smiles when we take the time to remember.

Wow, I'm even captivated by my own writing.  I can almost feel the flames flickering at my face.  I can feel the warmth of Lynda and my kids, Kendall and Avery, as we sit together building our smores and having the chocolate melt all over our fingers.  I hear the crackling fire, the sonic sound of the waves dancing on the shore and rolling the round rocks over and over and the playing of a guitar from a neighbouring fire further down the beach.  My senses are alive.  I don't want this feeling to end.

I live just minutes from beautiful beaches that have everything that I just described.  I ask myself why has it been years since I've gone there for an evening beach fire?  I'm still adrift in my seductively sensory world when the answer hits me squarely in the face or should I say, in the nose.  The beach stinks.  Those frigging caplin always overstay their welcome and millions of them end up rotting on the beaches.  Not even the ravenous gulls care to partake in the smorgasbord, as there are plenty of fresh ones to be had just offshore.  In the words of rocker, Alanis Morissette - "Isn't it ironic, don't you think?"  Just as the weather improves enough to make a trip to the beach possible, the caplin beat us to the punch.  It seems that Mother Nature is playing games with us and getting her kicks at our expense.  Just for that Mother N, we'll continue to have our fires in our backyard and no, we won't be sharing our smores with you.

Loving to Write and Writing to Love

My wife, Lynda, seldom comments on any of the stories that I write.  I quiz her from time-to-time, so I'm pretty certain that she reads most of them.  Even by my standards, I thought my last story, In Defence of Fruits, was a little "out there".  I asked my life partner what she thought and the reviews weren't too good.  Apparently there will be no Pulitzer Prize coming my way any time soon.

I only half listened to her constructive criticism because, dress it up any way you want, it is still criticism.  It also seems that the person you love most in this world is the one least likely to sugar coat anything that is said to you.  There's none of - "It was interesting, but it wasn't the type of story that I like."  Nor has there been anything like - "Perhaps more alliteration would spice things up, but I really loved the ending."  As we come up to twenty years of marital bliss, the need to preserve feelings has long since passed.  Even if Lynda did sing the praises of my literary offerings, it is quite possible that I would miss her comments because, as I mentioned, we husbands have a tendency to only half listen.

I think Lynda may have said something along the lines of how I should just stick to what I do best.  I'm not sure if she meant to just write about things going on in my life or whether that was a subtle hint that I should consider taking a permanent hiatus from pretending to be a writer.  Since I "retired" a year ago from my work of twenty one years, Lynda has been unquestionably supportive of my efforts to find myself.  In writing, I have discovered something that is both enjoyable and thought provoking.  Lynda's misgivings about that career choice may stem from the fact that the pay hasn't exactly added to our family's net worth ever since I began spitting out my stories this past January.  I guess my options have come down to a choice between finding a so called real job or living a more exciting life that will captivate my readers and cause them to want to shower me with money.  Hmmm, I hear McDonald's is hiring.

If writing is not what I do best, then I wonder what else it could be?  To be honest, I haven't a clue.  If I did, then I would no longer need to find myself, as I would have been found.

I wonder what Lynda would consider to be "what Jim does best"?  I think I will ask her that question tonight after we go to bed.  Lynda will certainly be impressed that I want to have such a deep and personal conversation.  She will be excited that I am making an effort to connect on such an emotional level.  Of course, as a man, I'm all for making my life partner excited about anything.  Also, as a man, I'll only be half listening to anything she says anyway.  I'll be doing a lot of nodding and "ah hum"ing.  With any luck, the excitement will serve its intention and we'll both work on making Jim better at something he really loves to do.  If that happens, then tomorrow I'll have something really good to write about. (That is, only if Lynda doesn't read this.  At least not until tomorrow.)