Fair warning: this is more about fond memories than it is about fishing. I do feel, however, that the two frequently go hand in hand.
Right now, I'm in the beach house that I remember from my childhood. I've written about it before, but I feel like mentioning the place again. Perhaps it's the breeze from the Atlantic, but I'm in a nostalgic mood.
Sometime between the end of the Great Depression and the beginning of the second World War, my grandmother's grandmother bought a house in a town called Myrtle Beach. At that time, the town was a place where many folks from North Carolina would soak up the sun, as it was within an afternoon drive.
It's a simple structure. It has modest bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, a porch, and one room that spans the width of the front of the house. I have wonderful memories of the old place. I like to watch my son walk down the stairs. The spindles on one side decrease in length as you walk down, and as a child, I would grab each spindle until the last, which was too small, even for a child's fingers. My son does it, too. When my mother saw him, she said her brothers and sisters played the same game.
In the main room sits a small two-tiered table. I used to have my hiding place under it, and now, so does my boy. Seeing him play brings back a flood of happy memories, as he enjoys the house as much as I did at his age.
So now, as I hear the night breeze whistling as it moves through the screens, I'm reminded of the summers I've spent here. My eyes sting just a little from the salty ocean. The tide still comes up closer than I thought it would. The hot afternoon is the perfect time for reading and napping, and I don't miss television at all. And, of course, there's always the joy of a tight line in the ocean. Watching a long fishing pole bend is just icing on the cake.
As much as I hate to leave, I'll always enjoy coming back.
Right now, I'm in the beach house that I remember from my childhood. I've written about it before, but I feel like mentioning the place again. Perhaps it's the breeze from the Atlantic, but I'm in a nostalgic mood.
Sometime between the end of the Great Depression and the beginning of the second World War, my grandmother's grandmother bought a house in a town called Myrtle Beach. At that time, the town was a place where many folks from North Carolina would soak up the sun, as it was within an afternoon drive.
It's a simple structure. It has modest bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, a porch, and one room that spans the width of the front of the house. I have wonderful memories of the old place. I like to watch my son walk down the stairs. The spindles on one side decrease in length as you walk down, and as a child, I would grab each spindle until the last, which was too small, even for a child's fingers. My son does it, too. When my mother saw him, she said her brothers and sisters played the same game.
In the main room sits a small two-tiered table. I used to have my hiding place under it, and now, so does my boy. Seeing him play brings back a flood of happy memories, as he enjoys the house as much as I did at his age.
So now, as I hear the night breeze whistling as it moves through the screens, I'm reminded of the summers I've spent here. My eyes sting just a little from the salty ocean. The tide still comes up closer than I thought it would. The hot afternoon is the perfect time for reading and napping, and I don't miss television at all. And, of course, there's always the joy of a tight line in the ocean. Watching a long fishing pole bend is just icing on the cake.
As much as I hate to leave, I'll always enjoy coming back.
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