Beaches

I love beaches.

From my early days, that word meant the coarse sand of Red Point, a beachside community on the northern rim of the Cheasapeake. That beach was cluttered with shells, sticks, seaweed - crude to anyone else except those of us who grew up with it and considered it the holy of holies.

Next came the Jersey Shore with the soft white-sugar sand of Ocean City, clean, vast, edged by an old-fashioned boardwalk with the smell of popcorn, pizza and french fries floating on the sea air.

Then came the  pristine Outer Banks with its dunes, birds and dophins cavorting through the surf.

I loved them all.

Now a Glick reunion took us to the Pacific Northwest, to an Oregon beach near Lincoln City. The craggy rocks and shrubs stretched down to the wide sand and a box of pastel crayons spilled into the vast stillness of sky and sea.

Alleluia.