Panhandle Memories

The Florida of my youth was nothing like where I'm sitting this morning. We are basking in clean, air-conditioned spaces, where we can shower off outside or inside, choose to stay cool and sweatless or roast out on the beach and then dunk in a bath-like swimming pool. But as a child, no, these things were not options...

We rarely braved the trek to Florida. It took decades of hours, in a non-air-conditioned vehicle, with sweaty sibling bodies pressed together in the back like sardines in a tiny Volkswagen Beetle. Lunch was out of a cooler or a sack, pulled over to the side of the road. Brief, as there was no respite from the heat when you stopped moving. When I think of the panhandle of my girlhood, it sounds like the hot sizzle of cicadas buzzing. It was blazing and miserable. But at the first sight of moss hanging from trees, our spirits began to lift. By the time Daddy announced the ocean, we thought we'd died and gone to heaven. We were rednecks and this was our Riviera.

I remember one particular trip, actually a very late one, as far as childhoods go. My sister and I were college students by then, my brother a middle-schooler. We were both working, me a full-time job, her a summer stint. Through work, I was receiving free Ramada hotel stays. Melanie and I decided to take the whole family to the beach, thinking we were big now. It was just for a long weekend, but we headed down in a bigger, air-conditioned car, much improved from our childhood trips. That whole jaunt is like a sweet place in my history book. Everyone was relaxed and the miles flew by as we talked and laughed. The ocean came into view. We were miles from our hotel but Daddy pulled into the sand and all of us piled out. I'll never forget the wonder of that one impulsive move. One of those rare times in your life when things like wetness, sand, agendas, schedules, and the cares of the world were thrown off in a moment. The sun was low in the sky and the tide was coming in. Swimsuits were discreetly changed into in the back seat and we threw ourselves into the surf like lemmings off the cliff. The water was as clear as crystal, bluer than I'd ever remembered. As we swam out, we saw thousands of sand dollars deep down. We dove over and over, bringing up handfuls. The sun went down as we reluctantly moseyed over to the hotel. 

The whole weekend was blissful. Everyone ate, slept, played. Melanie and I linked arms on our floats and talked for hours while the water lapped around us. I think we somehow had a sixth sense about our lives. Little did we know that by the time the next summer would roll around, we would both be happily married and experiencing our own massive sea changes. The carefree days of youth would be left behind. There were husbands, jobs, our own homes to manage. We had experienced the mystifying blessing of a good Mama and Daddy, with relatively little suffering or hardship. Life spread wide and large before us. There were many babies to be had, joys to be experienced, tears to be cried, burdens to shoulder, depths to be plumbed. 

All these years later, I remember that small patch of days with a sweet surge of nostalgia, bittersweet, mixed with pain and joy. Time goes by. I'm a fat Yaya surrounded with myriads of grandbabies, a good husband and a good life. I'm thinking of those days: my little sister's simple trust, my baby brother's sincere brown eyes, the black-and-whiteness of my parents' rules along with their ardent love for us. That's a serene place, with my precious people, in the center of my soul that time can't erase. I'm so very grateful.