Saturday, July 21--
6:55 p.m.-
Parked at Grand Sandbanks in the shade of the hill, the sun is winking
through a gracious white pine. We've both been in the water freshening and
cool, after a long day at work, nine hours for me and the same for EZ. But
I got to frolic with people and she didn't, plus I was in an air-conditioned
store while she was hot at home.
It's a scorcher today--the hottest of the summer, shoppers came in
from the heat and collapsed by the door. We ran to drench doilies with cool
water sopped, and placed them across fiery foreheads all beastly and hot.
By noontime it had become a social event. Cots were set out in the aisles
of the place, a man had a harmonica, and a wife with a tattoo strummed a washtub
string bass. A young boy watched at the door to let out a yell, and us helpful
hardware men came running as faint newcomers fell. It wasn't as bad for them
though, as those who came before; some ladies had knitted soft and wide cushions
out of fluff PVC pipefittings.
Stones on the shore dapple red and burnt orange depending on in, or
out of the water. The Sandbanks are fifteen-feet high with a lip at the top,
an overhang of grass roots and ruddy topsoil. Sand has cascaded in miniature
avalanches, widening and spreading at the base near the shore. An occasional
clicking sound, I glance to my right, and watch errant small pebbles tumble
down from the height.
A while ago I heard upstream a motor going fast, then a sharp shout
and a "clunk" as something was undaintily rammed. A stream
of bright curse-words ricocheted darkly across grass meadows and through the
meanders. The motor again revved fast and I heard waves pounding the banks
very close, then around the near bend came two boys in a boat. A fishing rig
outfitted with stools and a big motor, baseball caps backward, a slight awkward
wave. They pretended to know just how to navigate, but I'll bet later Dad's
boat will be in a shameful poor state.