Summer

There’s an extra layer of gladness at the beach this year. In the seaside town I’ve been coming to for 60 years, the holiday makers are happy simply to be here, to be permitted more than five ks from their homes, to be, for the most part, maskless, to be allowed to cavort and frolic in the waves and on the sand. The locals seems equally chuffed to see their supermarkets, cafes and op shops full in a way we thought might never happen again.

Victorians have had a hard year, and it is sweet relief to stand, blinking a little, at the other end. Families and friends can’t quite believe they can be together again.

At our place, we have a big crew. All our four plus partners (rare these days) plus mates. Last night there were three hiking tents on our bush block. The previous night, one couple were in their station wagon. At night I go to bed long before anyone else and wriggle gleefully down into my bed, detective novel on the go, listening to the babble of voices and laughter at my hearth.

This place was built by my grand-parents, financed by my great grand-parents, in 1917. Mum was born the following year, sixth child in her family. She and one of her sisters wrote extensively describing their holidays down here, and, ubiquitous mobiles notwithstanding, I am struck by the similarity with ours.

Sure, my Granny never seemed to stop working – with no mod cons and precious little money. But they walked and swam, talked and played board games and cricket, just as their descendants do. They ploughed through piles of library books. They had long meals on the verandah that produced vast mountains of dirty dishes. Everyone helped out. 

This year there is the added delight of a baby in the family; I hang nappies on the clothesline that is a rope strung between two trees, in great contentment. She is passed around like a beloved parcel; in a way much is made of her, in a way, she’s just another member of the gang, the clan.

The introvert in me survives the general mayhem by daily ‘naps’, which are just as likely to be a long read followed by time simply starting out the window at the gum trees. This is a place I love to come to on my own, or just with the man with whom I raised this brood. With the mob here it’s Bedlam. But in a world where people die of loneliness, I find myself saying, with Mary, I am blessed among women.

Comments

[Sally Manuell]

heartwarming images Clare. There’s nothing like a family beach holiday.

[Rod]

Now that's a post to make a grown man cry - the title of the Book of poetry I am working through before I go to sleep. Thanks for this beautiful evocation of the joys of family life. You seem to be getting better and better. Perhaps grandmotherhood produces a writing hormone!!