Earliest beach memory is picnics, my mum and dad coming home from work, he from a factory, she from the warehouse of a local Towers department store, neither of them easy jobs and I realize now they must have been tired but maybe, like me, never too tired for the beach, so they’d make coffee for one thermos, koolaid for another, throw some bread, meat, cheese, fruit and veg from the garden into a plaid metal cooler and then my dad would start up the little black oldsmobile he called fatso. It was the sixties.

The only other things we brought were towels and a blanket to sit on. The idea of needing anything to amuse ourselves surely never entered their minds, or mine I guess. After all, there was The Lake. And sand. Shells and pebbles and the endless search for beach glass. There was food to eat and clouds to look at. And there was the effort it took to pretend you knew how to swim, thinking no one would figure out you were still touching bottom. My sister, much older, said she’d learned by being tossed into the lake. I wanted to avoid that lesson.

Most vivid beach memory is the night a storm was brewing. My dad and sister were swimming way out in the lake when big rain and thunder started. My mum was frantic, waving, shouting for them to come back. My dad was laughing and waving from a distance. I don’t know what my sister was doing.

Same beach a few decades later. Me and my mum picking rosehips. My dad gone, my sister too, a decade before him. My mum would make a tea blend with the rosehips, adding (also hand picked) calendula, chamomile, linden, whatever she fancied in the moment, whatever she found in season.

Pictured above: the scene a few days ago. Different beach, entirely different body of water. The grandchildren, great grandchildren and great great grandchildren of my parents, most of whom they never met, and watching them (I’ve since learned to swim for real by the way) I see new watery memories being made and can’t help think there’s something deeper that runs through generations, that whether people have actually met in life or not isn’t what determines how much they carry of each other, how much they already know of their history without even trying.

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It’s a funny thing, the how of things remembered.

I remember making these napkins seven hundred at least years ago on a sewing machine I no longer have and that the fabric is a Ralph Lauren print, which I bought from a remnants table not because of Ralph but because… blue and white. I used to have a thing for blue and white (now more drawn to turquoise, orange, yellow and green). Children with mustardy faces who now have messy children of their own used them daily to wipe that mustard and more from lips and hands and while I wouldn’t advise looking too closely, they’ve held up well (maybe thanks in part to the magic of Ralph, not to mention the magic of line drying in the sun) and I remember too a certain few folk for a patio lunch one summer day who snorted when the cloth napkins came out, insisting I needn’t treat them specially, that they weren’t above using paper like everyone else and how for a moment I had no idea what they meant by ‘treating them specially’, assumed some kind of joke going on over my head then found out they were sadly serious, that the napkins meant something on a level I couldn’t de-code and when I tried to assure them I wasn’t fussing (because this was becoming A Thing with them), that we used these napkins all the time, that we never used paper, they took even greater offense at what they assumed was a lie.

I no longer see those people (surprise!), but the napkins (and the lineage of children with mustardy faces, also a clothesline) are still happily part of our daily lives, summer, winter, fall, and spring.

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Dear Moody Mornings that conspire to keep skies grey long enough to insist I linger in bed fluffed with pillows and layered with pages instead of leaping up to embrace a sunrise or walk in your morning magnificence and while I am grateful for the joy of leaping I remind myself to bow down too to the yang of your yin and accept the colour of your sky as the kindness it is. A bucket of thanks is what I’m trying to send you.

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Red is the colour of berries I can’t eat and of cherries I can. Of apple skin and lipstick I don’t wear. The colour of certain leaves in Fall and sometimes of boats and toys and rubber boots. Red is the colour of a tee shirt I wear to bed and a girl’s fairy tale cape. It’s the name of people with red hair and a homonym for read. A sound relative of rid and rad and rudder. Red is the colour of hot peppers and robin breast, of cardinal feather and crayons and less commonly chalk. It’s the colour of roses and drama and paint (a woman once told me she painted her garage door bright red after her husband died, she doesn’t know why) and nail polish and rouge. Is rouge still a thing by some other name and why do women (not men) rouge their cheeks, paint their faces like a garage, is it because they’re so disillusioned and pale from the weight of injustice, of patriarchal society, of the news of the world, their own world, that they have to fake a happy glow?

But back to boats — I’m glad mine is turquoise.

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