This annual trip to Florida had become our Thanksgiving tradition. It began three years earlier as a celebration of my mother’s recovery from surgery. A visit to the hospital for pneumonia had revealed a spot on her lung that was later diagnosed as malignant. The surgery to remove a section of her left lung had taken its toll on her physically, and on all of us emotionally. I’m an only child, so my mother and I have always shared a special bond. The thought of losing her was unimaginable to me.
As she began to regain her strength after the surgery, my mother suggested we all take a trip together. After such a difficult year, she wanted to build happy memories for my daughters, Sarah, eight, and Charlotte, six.
Though she had always been a sun-worshiper, that first year at the beach my mother spent much of the time in the shade or under the cover of a floppy straw hat. She wasn’t taking any chances.
But she would do anything for her granddaughters, and when they begged their “Grammy” to swim with them she put on a bathing suit, despite the ugly scar that traversed her back. She played in the water and in the sand, even though she tired quickly. In the late afternoons, we all shared a frozen tropical drink, complete with a tiny paper umbrella.
That first year, shells were strewn on the beach like daisies in a field. There had been a storm the previous week, which seemed to have churned up the ocean and deposited all its treasures on the beach for us to choose from. We filled our pockets with dozens of shells and brought them home, where we displayed them in a huge glass jar. It sat on our mantle as a reminder of the special time we’d shared together on the beach.
But this year, our luck wasn’t as good. We found fragments of shells, bits of sand dollars, and other uninteresting objects, but nothing worth saving. Our luck also matched our mood. Though we hadn’t told Sarah and Charlotte, my mother’s annual chest x-ray, taken just before we’d left, revealed a new spot on her lung. When we returned home, she would see her doctor to discuss what to do next.
I walked along the beach, not wanting to go home. Maybe if we stayed, we wouldn’t need to return to reality. We’d bask in the warm sun, hear the calming rhythm of the waves, and enjoy our time together. I didn’t want this vacation to end. I didn’t want it to be our last.
I don’t know what came over me, but I started talking to the ocean.
“Please, let everything be okay,” I said. “Let us all come back here again next year. Together.”
The waves continued to roll over the sand, licking my feet. I listened to the ocean. Was it listening to me?
“Send me a sign,” I asked. “Send me a sign that everything will be all right.”
I stood at the edge of the water, and in the distance saw my daughters walking hand in hand with my mother. I wanted to remember this moment, exactly as it was. It was one of those perfect moments you know you’ll never be able to re-create.
I checked my watch and realized it was almost time to leave. In a few minutes, we would be brushing the sand from our feet, putting on our shoes and heading for the airport. Would we all be back again next year?
Just then, I noticed something in the water. With each wave, it moved closer to me, until it was almost at my feet. I took a step forward and picked up a conch shell as big as my hand. It was smooth, pink, and perfect. It was like no other shell we’d ever found. The ocean had given me a sign.
“Thank you, thank you,” I whispered, imagining the shell at home on the mantle.
I took one more deep breath, filling my soul with the ocean’s strength. And I knew everything would be okay. I knew it, because the ocean had told me so.
Ruth Spiro
The Family on the Beach
With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live now.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
We’re sitting in our car, my husband and I, parked near the beach, watching the sun slide below the wall of granite-gray clouds rising up from the horizon, out where the ocean ends. It’s a beautiful evening. Here at sunset the shore is awash with muted pinks, pale yellows, and opalescent grays. Drained of daytime color, this seaside world of breaking waves and wet sand shimmers like the inside of an oyster shell.
It’s chillier now than when we headed out to dinner earlier this evening. We didn’t think then to bring along jackets or sweaters. So instead of walking off our desserts along this favorite stretch of beach, we decide to take in the scenery tonight from the comfort of two bucket seats, to hear the call of gulls through the car’s open sun roof.
Nudging my husband’s arm, I nod toward the young family ambling into view a few yards from the water’s edge: mom, a dad, a little girl about five, and a boy who looks age three.
The dad, jacket collar turned up, stops to peer out at a big ship dredging sand about a half-mile offshore. The mom’s gaze wanders from the setting sun to the seagulls overhead to the floppy cloth bag she’s setting down in the sand.
From the bottom of this bag, the boy pulls out a plastic shovel and promptly sets to work: digging, scooping, and patting. His sister, all knees and elbows and Buster Brown bangs, sees this as her cue to perform for any beachcombers who care to watch what looks like the “Dance of the Purple Leggings.”
The boy’s intense focus and the girl’s dramatic flair remind me of our two kids some seventeen years ago.
Today our daughter, a recent college grad, works at a nonprofit in the San Francisco Bay area. Our son, a specialist in the U.S. Army, sends e-mails from a base in Germany where he is stationed now after fifteen months in Iraq.
“Remember when Anne and Roman were that age?” I say to my husband.
“Barely,” he answers softly.
“Where does the time go?” I wonder.
I can’t take my eyes off this family. And for an instant, there is no such thing as time. There is only life, leaving its footprints on the beach. And at this moment, all that matters is these four people—with their zippered jackets and plastic shovels, their windblown hair and sand-filled sneakers. And this family is us: my husband, our daughter and son, and me. And we are them.
They won’t know it, but I’ll be there when they arrive back home—when the dad brushes the sticky sand from between his son’s fingers and the mom pours a couple capfuls of Mr. Bubble into the warm, running water of the tub in the kids’ bathroom. When the light from the lamp next to the family room sofa falls on the pages of tonight’s bedtime story, I’ll be there, too. In truth, I already am.
The family is about to leave the beach now. The dad scoops up the toy bag and reaches for the girl’s hand as he turns to navigate the small incline that leads toward the cars. The little boy, still clutching his shovel, lifts both arms toward his mom. She picks him up. He wraps his legs around her waist, rests a cheek on her shoulder. Faces expressionless, they shuffle past our parked car.
This scene reminds me of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, where Emily, a character, asks in the play’s final act, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? ”Wondering that very same thing, I feel impelled to pop up through the sunroof and call after these strangers, “Stop! Pay attention! Look, really look, at one another!” I want to tell them, “Tomorrow your little girl will study at a university hundreds of miles away! The day after that, your son will join the army. Before you know it, you’ll have a condo in Sun City and five grandchildren! Stop, stay, look, really look.”
Of course, I don’t say any of this. Instead, my eyes follow them all as they head toward their car and home— toward days, nights, and years that will, I’m sure, pass far too quickly. But they can’t possibly know that. Not now. Not next week or even next month. Maybe they’ll have an inkling in another fifteen years or so, when one evening after dinner, this mom or dad or both drive to a nearby beach to watch the sun slide below a wall of clouds rising up from the horizon, out where the ocean ends.
There they’ll notice a young family stopping near the water’s edge. For a short while that holds within it echoes of eternity, they’ll find th
ey won’t be able to take their eyes off that strangely familiar foursome. And without a word, they’ll watch the long, end-of-day shadows stretching toward them across the sand—of a little boy and a dancing girl and a floppy bag of beach toys.
Sue Diaz
Flying with the Penguins
The day was slightly overcast—a perfect day for us to spend some time at the beach with Dominique. First we stood in the shallow water for a while to let the waves rush over our feet and splash us, much to her delight and sending her into fits of laughter and giggles.
We then sat side by side close to the water's edge to build sand castles and watched as the water came in to take them back into the ocean, leaving nothing but a smooth sandy surface as the pallet to begin yet another shovel and pail creation. We filled buckets of water and ran to share them with Mommy—well at least as much as was left after our bumpy journey through the hills of sand on our way back to the blanket and towels a few yards from shore. Dominique also searched for seashells while covering my legs, as well as her doll, with mounds of sand. It was a wonderful, calm, and enjoyable time in the middle of a summer vacation that I will forever remember.
Jackie and I began folding the towels and collecting the many scattered beach toys tossed here and there in the surrounding area. Dominique, however, wasn't quite ready to return to our condo for lunch. She had much bigger plans in store for me, as I soon found out.
"Oh, Momma, look at the penguins!" she exclaimed in that adorable squeal of an excited four-and-a-half-year-old.
"Can I touch them, please?" Her finger was pointed in the direction of a few wandering seagulls less than ten feet from where we stood. Her eyes were opened wide with excitement, but she stood there without moving until she was sure she had my full attention and approval.
Normally I would have taken a moment like this to teach her the difference between the two birds or would have at least corrected her choice of names to call these interesting creatures. But not this time. This time was different. Instead of leading—I followed. I let her teach me this time.
"Only if you can catch them!" I yelled as I grabbed my camera and threw the strap around my neck.
"Come on, Momma! Let's fly like the penguins!" With that she took off, her arms extended in a waving motion and little bare feet moving as quickly as she could manage through the warm sand.
I ran behind her half consumed with the joy of flying and the other half with an occasional pause to snap a photo of this beautiful moment. My heart was pounding and my eyes barely pushing back the tears as I watched her follow each bird in anticipation of being able to touch it if she was quick enough. As she came within a few feet of her goal, each seagull would take flight to escape her reach. Instead of being upset at the defeat, she would quickly turn and run in another direction as she spotted more skipping "penguins" waiting for her to play. Her “try, try again” attitude never wavered as she continued this game along the open beach. She hesitated only long enough to be certain I was still following her and to occasionally call out to me—"Wave your arms like this, Momma!" while demonstrating the motions.
This very special child, who barely walked a little more than two years ago, was now "running" barefoot through the sand and "flying" like a champion. Much more than that—she has given me a gift I never would have dared to dream of receiving. I've read and heard the phrase "fly like an eagle" and thought I understood the meaning of the words. But now I've actually lived it in a way that few will ever know.
I've experienced the magic of flying with the penguins because my very special little girl took the time to show me how.
Sharon Rivers
As Good As It Gets:
A Seashore Snapshot
Once upon a time, my husband and I sat at a table at a Paris restaurant and watched, spellbound, as the flower-bedecked ceiling magically opened and doves flew overhead.
It was one of those dreamlike experiences, complete with magnificent food, violins, and romance in the City of Lights. We were young, carefree, and dazzled by the spectacular opulence, the food, the wine, and, of course, Paris itself.
As my late grandmother might have said, “What’s not to like?”
What indeed?
So I have always clung to that dining experience as a milestone destined for the “as good as it gets” category.
But I’ve recently added another, so different as to be almost laughable—yet just as magical.
This time, dinner was not at a gilded restaurant with gold-rimmed china and tinkling crystal goblets. This time, it was on a modest deck at a beach house on Long Beach Island at the New Jersey seashore.
And this time, the cast of characters included our three daughters, our two sons-in-law, and seven very noisy, sunburned grandchildren.
It was not Paris, and it surely was not the Paris restaurant.
But it was just as magnificent a milestone.
Maybe it was the sight of the ocean from the deck of the rented house our daughters were sharing for one golden week at this glorious stage of their own lives.
Maybe it was the intoxicating smell of salt air mixed with charcoal from the well-used grill on this deck where Michael, the family gourmet-chef, was anointing fresh fish with his secret sauce.
Surely it was the spectacle of a fiery red sun setting over the bay and the sound of Danny’s shrieks of delight as he chased his cousin Emily around the deck with the abandon of a four-year-old in love with life itself.
Definitely it was because I was holding tiny Baby Carly in my arms, protecting her from the stiff breeze and loving every moment my hands could touch her cloud-soft skin.
We sat on chairs that had seen better days, exhausted from the sun and surf, wrapped in jeans and sweatshirts, barely able to summon up the energy to move.
One of our daughters told a hilarious tale of a long-forgotten childhood escapade, and we laughed until our sides hurt.
Our “dinner service” was not the china and crystal of that Parisian restaurant, but the economy-brand supermarket paper plates and plastic forks that define summer at the beach.
And when Michael announced that his epic meal was ready, we ambled over to a picnic table to sample his artistry: the catch-of-the-day bluefish, the steaming corn, the grilled veggies that Michael insisted would nullify the calories yet to come from a decadent chocolate layer cake.
We all ate too much that night, and laughed more than we had all summer, and fussed more than was prudent over little tykes with sand in their hair.
NEW JERSEY
Cape May
NEW JERSEY
Cape May
Chocolate icing coated Zay’s hands, face, and sweatshirt. Hannah was staring at the moon, insisting that it was far too early for a young woman of ten to go to bed. And little Sam had fallen asleep on his grandfather’s lap, still clinging to the shells he’d collected in his little yellow pail. Jonah was at perfect peace, asleep on the deck, clutching his “blanky.”
There were no finger bowls, no French pastries, no doves that night.
But there was something far more precious.
There was a family at the beach, seizing one glorious day and night from the jaws of time, distance, and the frenzy of modern life.
And that made Paris pale by comparison.
Sally Friedman
“I hate to say it, but . . . do you think it is time to throw
in the beach towel until next summer?”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.
Who Is Jack Canfield?
Jack Canfield is the cocreator and editor of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series, which Time magazine has called “the publishing phenomenon of the decade.” The series now has 105 titles with over 100 million copies in print in forty-one languages. Jack is also the coauthor of eight other bestselling books, including The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be, Dare to Win, The Aladdin Factor, You’ve Got to Read This Book, and The Power of F
ocus: How to Hit Your Business and Personal and Financial Targets with Absolute Certainty.
Jack has recently developed a telephone coaching program and an online coaching program based on his most recent book The Success Principles. He also offers a seven-day Breakthrough to Success seminar every summer, which attracts 400 people from fifteen countries around the world.
Jack has conducted intensive personal and professional development seminars on the principles of success for over 900,000 people in twenty-one countries around the world. He has spoken to hundreds of thousands of others at numerous conferences and conventions and has been seen by millions of viewers on national television shows such as The Today Show, Fox and Friends, Inside Edition, Hard Copy, CNN’s Talk Back Live, 20/20, Eye to Eye, the NBC Nightly News, and the CBS Evening News.
Jack is the recipient of many awards and honors, including three honorary doctorates and a Guinness World Records Certificate for having seven books from the Chicken Soup for the Soul series appearing on the New York Times bestseller list on May 24, 1998.
To write to Jack or for inquiries about Jack as a speaker, his coaching programs, or his seminars, use the following contact information:
The Canfield Companies
P.O. Box 30880 • Santa Barbara, CA 93130
phone: 805-563-2935 • fax: 805-563-2945
E-mail:
[email protected] or
visit his website at www.jackcanfield.com
Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?
In the area of human potential, no one is more respected than Mark Victor Hansen. For more than thirty years, Mark has focused solely on helping people from all walks of life reshape their personal vision of what’s possible. His powerful messages of possibility, opportunity, and action have created powerful change in thousands of organizations and millions of individuals worldwide.