Second Chance Idol: Shade

[babydramatic_1950]

 

[Every summer between 1987 and 1999, my sweetheart Betty and I went to Ogunquit, Maine for a week in the summer. After that we went sporadically.]

                                                     

It is 1988 and we now know the territory.  A vacation in Ogunquit means a daily trip to Ogunquit Beach. Unlike other beach towns—for example, Provincetown, where a lot of our friends go—Ogunquit has a trolley that can take us from our little Mayfair Studio to the beach with our gear, hence our choice of it for a beach vacation. Gear (sigh).  Just to get to Ogunquit means a long trip involving a train, a bus, and two taxis, one at either end. And that with two pocketbooks, two tote bags, three suitcases, and a very large beach umbrella. For myself I would never have taken the umbrella, because to me the whole point of the beach (where I am never really comfortable if I want to be honest with myself) was, in addition to smelling the sea air and feeling a breeze on my face, to try to coax my pale ivory skin into becoming one shade darker. For Betty, on the other hand, the beach meant not just the smell of the sea air and the breeze on her face, but also fears of getting skin cancer like her father.

 So once we were installed in our Studio, getting out for an afternoon at the beach meant packing a large bag with a towel, books, sunscreen, and maybe some drinks in a cooler.  Not to mention the umbrella, which was not only awkward to carry (and annoying to people sitting near us on the trolley) but also very difficult for two small, physically unfit women who sat in offices all day (I was in my late 30s and Betty was in her early 50s) to hoist aloft and tamp down vigorously into the sand so that it didn’t fall over. 

And it had to be at the proper angle to allow both for shade and a little bit of “beach experience,” so, needless to say, by the time we were exhausted and breathless from screwing it into the sand so that it didn’t fall over not to mention angling it and positioning it properly, Betty had no more energy for a beach outing and wanted to go back to our Studio.  In any event, I doubt if we stayed at the beach for more than an hour each day before both of us were bored, sticky, hot, tired, and cranky, and wanted to go somewhere to wash ourselves off (which was not close by and required breaking camp and hauling the umbrella with us yet again), as we would not have been allowed to board the trolley covered with sand, which we invariably were, even staying on the blanket.

A few years later, we miraculously discovered that we could rent an umbrella for the day at one of the stores near the beach.

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By 1995 or thereabouts we had given up the idea of spending an hour on the beach, because Betty had discovered the area covered by the striped awning where people (mostly the over-50s whose children and grandchildren were playing on the beach) could sit and read and look at the beach. She was 61, so she fit right in, and needed to make no apologies.

I was now 45 and had given up buying or wearing bathing suits. (And needed to make no apologies.) If I wanted a little color I could get some on my arms (all that the public ever saw anyhow) and enjoy a barefoot walk on the beach in jeans and a t shirt. I could decline sunscreen and wander and take pictures. (This was before smart phones, or even cell phones, so in addition to a book I had to remember to bring my camera. Drinks could be bought at one of the stores near the beach if we were thirsty.)  So Betty could read the paper and enjoy a protected view of the beach, a reminder that we were not in New York, and I could walk and look. I wasn’t going to spend my precious beach vacation afternoon sitting under an awning, but it was liberating not to have to worry about my unfashionably chunky legs or my unfashionably pale skin tone.

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In 2009 we went back to Ogunquit after not having been there for a while. Some things had changed.  I was now 59 and Betty was 74, so we accepted that a surcharge for our journey was plying our cab driver and various red caps with ten dollar bills so that they would carry our gear from the taxi to the platform at Penn Station and from the platform at South Station in Boston to the bus station (which was now, blessedly, in South Station).  And we now only had to make the entire journey going, not coming, because friend from Boston offered to drive us back to South Station if we let her stay with us in Ogunquit for a few days (we also treated her to dinner).

That year we went to the beach less often, and Betty stayed in our room more.  She was tired. I was still working in an office and wanted a “vacation” (staying in a room was not one) so I often took the trolley to the beach and walked along the beach by myself, later sitting under the awning and reading for a while.  We now had cell phones (the old fashioned flip kind) so I could call Betty every now and then to let her know that I was still alive and had not been swallowed up by a wave.  When we did go to the beach together Betty asked me not to walk along the beach for more than 15 minutes because she was scared to be by herself; that I should come back and check up on her. And we rarely sat, even under the awning, for more than an hour, because after that Betty needed to go back to the room and lie down.  

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In 2014 we went to Ogunquit for the last time together.  It was Betty’s 80^th birthday so it was my treat.  As for me, I had left my last full time job in the Fall of 2009 and really couldn’t afford vacations any more although on the other hand I didn’t need them because I was freelancing at home and could take a day off whenever I felt like it. But this was worth taking some money out of my savings.  I knew somewhere that it would be our last trip together.

 Betty was now too frail to walk down the hill to the trolley stop. Once the taxi driver deposited us in our room she just wanted to stay there. But the following day we needed lunch. (We had had cereal in our room for breakfast.)  So I helped her slowly make her way to the trolley stop and board the trolley so that we could sit under the awnings near the beach and then go eat lunch at the coffee shop right next to it.  It was there that we discovered the Beach Cabby.

The driver gave us a business card and told us that when we wanted to go to or from the beach we just had to call her and she would come pick us up at our door (no need to walk down or back up the hill) and take us where we wanted to go for $5. When we wanted to go back to our room we could call her again, allowing at least 30 minutes.  So we got to go to the beach, or to a restaurant, at least once a day. And we asked our friend from Boston to come a day early so that we could spend time together and she could drive us out to a restaurant or even for an afternoon of sight-seeing.

I also took a long trolley ride by myself, at least once.  I didn’t bother to get off at the beach, I just took the trolley from one end of Ogunquit and back again so that I could see the town, which hadn’t changed much since 1987 except that there was now no place on the trolley route to buy the kinds of groceries that you could use to assemble a home cooked meal in your room. Anyhow, it was a cheap sight-seeing trip ($1.50).

But all in all, Betty spent most of that, her last vacation, in the room and I spent most of it sitting in the beautiful Japanese garden downstairs.

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Three years later Betty stopped walking. She now has dementia and spends her life in bed.

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In 202x (or 203x, as the story has not yet been written), I make the trip to Ogunquit with one pocketbook, one tote bag, and one small suitcase—and Betty’s ashes.  I do not go alone.  I am not sure how I get there, but I know that I will have paid for a companion, either by the hour or by the day, or just by paying her train fare and buying her meals.  Maybe my friend from Boston will meet us in South Station and take us where we are going. She has promised to help me scatter Betty’s ashes over the Marginal Way, maybe legally, maybe not (I will have done the research). We will go out at dawn.  There will be no need to provide shade because I know I will never again feel the sun.

Comments

[zaichikarky]

Beautifully written. It's always hard when your partner is significantly older than you and you have to watch them aging and suffering. Seems like you two had a lot of great memories. I never went to the beach in Maine, but I loved the state.

[bsgsix]

I always love hearing about you and Betty, R.

That last paragraph really hit me, especially not feeling the sun again. I get that, and worry about things like that for my own family. Maybe I'm not bright to *myself* - but who knows how others see me? I don't know how Toby would or will react to my passing.

It's hard to think about, and you captured a portrait of a loving couple - both aging, but one reaching an end faster than should ever be - quite wonderfully here. <3

[babydramatic_1950]

Thank you so much for your compliments! No, it's hard to know how a loved one will react to one's passing. It's hard to talk about other than to formalize last wishes. And one never knows. I just updated all my end of life documents because, particularly with all the craziness and mass shootings going on, I could go first and I need to know that she will be taken care of. Of course it's most likely that Betty will die first. I know that my life will go on, but she is really the only person I ever loved. I have no siblings or children and my relationship with my mother was very fraught. I was not particularly sad when she died although I try to keep good memories alive by reading books that she loved, looking at art, and going to the ballet.

[alycewilson]

I love how you capture this relationship through this place where you liked to go. Sounds a lot like the beach vacations my late mother and her partner used to take, except that they usually involved my mom waking up early in order to sketch at sunrise on the beach.

[adoptedwriter]

Kinda reminds me of the movie, BEACHES. The progression of time in this piece is unfolded brilliantly. My in laws had a significant age gap as well, so I really get this.

[itsjust_c]

This is really lovely...and also very sad.

It sounds like you and Betty have had wonderful relationship x

[babydramatic_1950]

Thank you everyone for your compliments. This was hard to write, and made me sad, but also happy, remembering all the wonderful times we had. Betty has dementia and there are a lot of things she doesn't remember, but she does remember Ogunquit.

[dmousey]

***hugs*** How difficult it must be to see her decline. ***hugs*** again, and sending some positive thoughts your way. 😊✌🐭🎀

[oxymoron67]

This was so beautiful, and a great twist on the prompt.

I am so sorry about Betty.

[static_abyss]

Your piece is emotional and very clearly shows how much you love Betty. Thank you for sharing your story with her with the rest of us.

[wolfden]

This is a lovely piece. I appreciate how you told your story of returning visits to the same place.


Betty is just a bit younger than my mom. My mom turned 80 in 2012. She also has dementia. It is a long journey of so much loss.

[sonreir]

Oh, this is sad and lovely. Thank you. <3

[tjoel2]

Very well done! :)

[bleodswean]

Gorgeous and haunting and evocative. *hugs* You've beautifully brought the reader into this place with all of these memories and the last installment is gutting.

[kehlen.livejournal.com]

I am very sorry that your friend's mind is slipping. It is hard enough to see my parents grow rigid and inflexible; I hope I never have to experience dementia close and personal. *hugs*

I love how you showed your explorations and growing knowledge of the place much loved and visited, and the changes time wrought in it, and in the two of you.

And the love you feel for Betty is palpable, the ending, and future ending of the story made me cry.

[tonithegreat]

This is gorgeous. I think the world would be a better place if we were all more mindful of these patterns and our expectations for how things will play out among those we love. I’m so glad you shared this. My husband is ten plus years into young onset Parkinson’s and we also enjoy traveling to old favorite spots. We keep modifying the way we travel, too. But there’s still a lot of sweet. Also, here’s to not having to apologize for clothing choices!

[murielle]

As I'm reading I'm wondering why the name Ogunquit is familiar. Then I remember, that's where Franny (The Stand) was from, I think.

I found this so sad. My mom had Alzheimer's so I'm fairly familiar with the heartbreaking decline.

[rayaso]

This was such a sweet, lovely entry. I was so sorry to read about Betty. You captured so much by writing about these beach trips. Excellent!

[spilledink562]

It's beautiful but a heart wrenching story you're sharing with us. I'm glad you two have so many happy memories at a place that's obviously dear to the both of you. I think you conveyed the emotions in a very spare but really effective way.

Thank you for sharing this beautiful tale.

[halfshellvenus]

This was just beautiful, such a terrific combination of humor, misadventure, and ache.

I'm so sorry Betty has reached this stage in her life, that you have both reached this stage in your relationship. I don't know how long you've been together-- more than thirty years at a minimum, which is wonderfully long but never close to being long enough, not when you've found the one you really love.

Thank you for sharing this with us, in all of its rich, sad complexity.