Leap Into Life
So how are those November mountains coming? If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can check out last month's Nanowrimo post, here. I know, I know. It's hard to make climbs, whether it's for National Novel Month or life.
I'm struggling with the novel but I wanted to share with you something a little shorter... and more achievable: a personal narrative. The Pier by Emily Vennart Nielson I wasn't there but I know it burned. Grandma points out the pier every time we visit Maine, telling us that it used to extend miles farther into the ocean. She often comments on the carousel that’s replaced the original, one that’s intricately painted horses had burned, too, in the fire of 1969- the same year Dad was born. Standing at the edge of the water, just as Grandma was forty-six years ago when the fire struck, I can imagine the feeble wooden structure burning into the Atlantic. The year is 2015. Ashes from the Old Orchard Beach Pier extension are buried deep under the sea. It hasn’t been lucky. Countless disasters have hit this shore, but the pier is still standing more than a hundred years after it was built. That’s what counts. “There it is,” Grandma says, breaking the silence. Just fifteen minutes before, when we started our walk down the beach, Grandma had silenced my sister, Anna, and me. “This,” she said, “is the only place in the world where you can walk on the beach without sinking into the sand.” Grandma has walked on many beaches, enough to notice the difference. I hadn’t but, I too felt the hard sand beneath my feet. We step onto the boardwalk and dust sand off our feet. I’d only been to the pier twice, but all the stories I’d heard and photos I’d seen created a collage in my head. They were like shared memories: roller coasters ridden together instead of years apart. It’s a clear evening and the sun is still hanging over the ocean.The boardwalk is busy with visitors and vendors calling out their overpriced product. Bright colors, mismatched buildings, and scattered rides line the way. People of every age socialize. I can’t help but wonder if they’re adults, coming to relive a beautiful childhood, like my dad, who wanders behind us photographing things still standing from forty years ago. We pass a doughnut shop, then a homemade candy stand. I’ve eaten at the oceanside cafe and ridden the new carousel that has replaced the old one. “There’s the race car track,” I say, remembering the first time, just two years ago when I drove by myself. “It’s been here since I was a boy,” Dad tells us, taking a photo, “Gladys used to give my cousin Eric and I money to ride in a two- person car. Seventy five cents: three shiny quarters from her money jar.” Gladys was my Dad’s grandma and her youthful spirit, even at an old age, had been remembered by the whole family. According to Grandma, Gladys would always say, “ride the race cars for me.” Gladys's death years ago had been hard on both of them, but in a strange way, she seemed to be here with us. By the cottage we’d driven by a few hours back, at the family- favorite seafood restaurant, Huots, at the beach. Gladys was intertwined with the stories I’d been hearing my whole life: the hurricane they’d survived even after ignoring evacuation orders, games of Monopoly and cards on rainy days, picnics and outdoor showers. Gladys was there and more importantly, Gladys was here, at the Pier. “Watch out!” Someone calls, pulling me out of my thoughts. I immediately recognize the familiar bump on the boardwalk and whip my head around to catch a glance of the surrey before it turns back onto the dusty Maine road. Surrey's, also known as multi- person bikes- are an old time favorite of the Vennart Family. “You know,” dad starts and I know he’s about to go down memory lane, “The cousins and I broke a surrey, one summer.” With so many summers spent in Maine, I don’t know how he remembers everything. Somehow, though, Dad manages. Grandma smiles. “I paid the man for it and he let me keep it. You guys fixed the surrey up that next summer, remember?” “One of these days,” Dad says to no one in particular, “all the cousins, grandparents, friends, everyone, we’re going to come back here. Rent the whole row of cottages: have cook outs, show the kids how to walk to the beach, memorize the tide schedule, come to the pier... We’re going to remember the good ol’ days and then sit back and let the kids have some of their own.” Being at the pier, I feel a strong sense of peace. I am fourteen years old. The year is 2015, but below me the ground is that of the past. My family has walked this Pier; some parts still standing, some burned down. They rode these rides and swam in the ocean, just as I do, and as future generations will. Being here– up north, in Maine– I feel strong. My roots are here. My family is here. This is home. Like what you see? Be sure to subscribe to Saltare Into Life by clicking... Here! And share this post with your friends, too!!
8 Comments
Farfar
11/20/2015 08:23:56 am
Sixteen years old- the Pier seemed to stretch for miles, and so did the beach. Grandma Gladys hosted all of us- boyfriends, girlfriends, and just friends. Getting to pier in the evening meant quick dinners after a long afternoon on the beach. Jackie Dodge was the champion pin ball player then. Rain? Maybe a puzzle or cards, but when it looked like the rain was letting up- another trip to the pier.
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Saltare Into Life
11/29/2015 08:17:17 am
Thank you! I'm really glad you connected with the piece!
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Laura Gabel-Hartman
11/21/2015 05:59:24 am
So well written and so well observed.
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Saltare Into Life
11/29/2015 08:18:07 am
Thank you for reading and commenting! I really appreciate your support. Feel free to subscribe to Saltare Into Life!
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Saltare Into Life
11/29/2015 08:20:17 am
Thank you, Maisie! I'm so glad you felt connected to the piece. It seems that everyone has family stories about special places and important people with legacies that live on- I hope I'll hear yours sometime, too!
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A GLI friend
11/23/2015 06:41:55 am
Wow! That's reallly well written. You are an amazing writer.
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Saltare Into Life
11/29/2015 08:20:49 am
Thank you, GLI Friend. I'm so glad you liked it!
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