Memoirs

Sandra

It was the spring of 1960 and I was in the tenth grade. Sandra, her parents, and I were on our way to Oak Orchard for a week’s break from school. They had a small vacation home there which they used for getaways and they were nice enough to take me along.

Sandra was my very best friend. Being much smarter she always beat me at Scrabble and in school, but I never quit trying to do better. I loved her like a sister, a sister or brother for that matter that I never had. She was an only child like I was. Unbelievably, our birthdays were on the same day.

Sandra had been so smart she had skipped the twelfth grade to go to the university. I had felt like a lost puppy without her but as circumstances would have it, in my senior year, I'd been named valedictorian and been awarded a scholarship to the same university. I attributed both those honors to Sandra, not only because she was gone, but because she was the reason I had tried so hard. However, Sandra had “grown up” during her year at college without me and things never were the same after that.

When we arrived at Oak Orchard on that spring day of 1960, all the dogwoods were in full bloom covering the ground with pink snow. We traveled a shady, dirt road to their house, a small A-frame with lots of glass allowing us to routinely see many different species of birds and wildlife. The house was well-hidden in the trees keeping it cool and secluded. Sandra’s mom loved birds and she had put up nesting boxes, feeders and birdbaths everywhere.

Neighbors were close but not too close. The nearest neighbors had a pair of cocker spaniels that loved to come over and play with us. Their names were Sandy and Blacky for obvious reasons. We enjoyed frolicking with them as much as they did with us, throwing sticks for them to retrieve and racing them to the mailbox.

Oak Orchard was situated on a river near the ocean where brackish water made crabbing and clamming a popular pastime for us all. We would stand in chest-high water with a floating bucket tied to our waist by a rope and drag our rakes along the bottom bringing up at least one clam with every swipe. Sometimes we would crack the clam open right there and eat it with the slimy juice slithering down our chins, smacking our lips and splashing water to wash our faces.

Other days Sandra’s dad would take us riding in his motorboat, the faster the better, letting the wind and the salty spray plaster our hair flat and soak our faces and more. Sometimes we would pull up to a little island in the middle of the river and have a picnic. Sandra and I would write dumb things in the sand like “water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”

When it was time to go back home for the day, we would help load the boat on the trailer and later help wash it down for the next time. By day’s end we would all be dead tired; somehow, that’s what salt air does to you.

I remember those times like it was yesterday. If Heaven even comes close, it will be one happy, beautiful place.