Audio

I see pictures of pounding surf.  Contrast improved, color enhanced, image averaged.No matter how good they look, and even if they were 3-D and animated, there would still be  something missing:  the sound. 

The seashore is a place of constant noise. 

There is the whumff! of the breaker compressing a pocket of air as tons of water drop suddenly onto the beach.  There is the subsequent falling-rain sound of droplets touching down.  There is a sound to the movement of the gravel or sand itself.  Then there is my favorite, the hiss of breath as the wave retreats and air re-enters the interstices of the beach.  Not to mention the sounds of sea birds, the slapping of a halyard against a distant mast, the buffeting of wind in your ears.  Some days there may be the sound of a barking dog or of children playing wildly.  Another day there may be a fog horn.

I see the pictures of the sea.  The sound plays from memories in my head.

And then there is the smell of the salt air and all the aromas involved... 

Things I learned from my big brother

1.)  The water in the cup on the night stand turns into oil overnight, and if you drink it you turn into Frankenstein.

2.)  The last tablespoon of milk out of the carton -- the one with the all the bubbles in it -- is poison.

3.)  The potato chips with the green edges are poison.

4.)  Mom said he could have the last piece of cake. 

5.)  The brown crayons are made out of poop.

Advanced Degrees

When my dad was mad he would do a dressing-down that he sometimes called "Reading you the Riot Act".  This was also known as "Giving you What For" and "Giving you the Third Degree".  I was (still am) sort of a slow learner when it comes to picking up social cues, so I never really figured out the difference between those processes.  I did learn that my father leads with his right hand.  Ouch. 

The modern marvel of Wikipedia sheds some light on the Riot Act.  In my mind the Third Degree is associated both with flesh-charring burns and with being banished from the society of men and forced to do tedious work -- much like Doctoral Candidates must do. 

My mother, on the other hand, generally got her meaning through to me more efficiently.  Corporal punishment was largely symbolic with her, incorporating backside-whacks with a large kitchen wooden spoon.  Ouch.  "Do you want me to get the wooden spoon?"  That was enough.  Usually. 

Mom's warnings were set in various audible "fonts".   I could note the seriousness of the situation escalating to the extent to which she started to resort to her childhood North Dakota German upbringing -- the warnings set first in light Alte Schwabacher, then boldface, then dripping blood.  All without raising the volume level very much. 

Mom's other verbal clue was forms of address.  Calling me:  "Cro-own! ... Crowndot! ... Crowndot Blogspot, you come here! ... Ach now, Crowndot Blogspot Dotcom Junior, you come here this instant!!!" 

In lighter moments, after I had been teasing her, the appellation might include not the Third Degree, but Advanced Degrees:  "Oh get out of here you old Crowndotty XYZ, PDQ, The Third, Incorporated, PhD. ... Shoo!" 

Steadying myself

When my children were babies, the crib was in our room for our convenience.  When I got up dark and early in the morning, trying to be quiet lest I wake Mom and Baby, I would often reach out a hand to the corner of the crib to steady myself and locate myself in the dark room before heading toward the door. 

My youngest is 17 years old.  The crib days were a long time ago. 

All this week, as I rise for work dark and early in the morning, I find my hand reaching out for the crib that is not there, to steady myself on something that turns out to be only in my memories.