The cool change
blew in this afternoon as the forecasters predicted that it would and the
temperature dropped ten degrees in twenty minutes. That’s when everything
startled rattling. We gathered up towels and tee shirts that were threatening
to blow up onto the dunes and we moved indoors where we all got comfortable. We
found our own spots around the house and we swaddled up in yak blankets and did
our own things. Kids came and went. They are big kids now – young adults really
- lurking in that shadowy cusp of awkwardness and assertiveness as they leave behind
their childhood.
I heard bursts of
loud chatter and raucous laughter from the little corner that I had claimed as
my own. There were some voices that I recognised and others that I didn’t but I
liked the noise.
It was the sound
of Summer holidays
My favourite
niece Georgina just blew by in a mass of hair and attitude and she asked me, “Are you writing about me again Uncle
Peter?”
I assured her
that I was not.
“Oh go on,”
she implored.
The girls have
boyfriends and the boys have girlfriends in tow this year and there are other
relatives and friends staying as well. It is a full house. There is a lot of
chatter and noise and laughter around and before the change blew in the weather
had been hot and dry so we have been more or less living on the beach.
It is what we do
in Summer. It is what we have always done.
The cold on-shore
wind has blown sand up over the dunes and it is piled in mounds on doorsteps.
In some places it dances in little whirlwinds.
It is everywhere.
Towels have blown
off the balustrade and surfboards have toppled. Window awnings are shaking and
rattling.
I have tried to
remain mostly oblivious to the adolescent emotions that have surrounded me
since my arrival. I am a veteran of many many Summers now so I know all
too well that the holiday season exacerbates emotions. Ends of school, work and
a long year of anything and everything create moods of elation and celebration.
It is sun time.
It is fun time.
It is sun time.
It is fun time.
It is young time.
Georgina just
walked into the room again and demanded that I write about her. I will
therefore recant the story of my favourite niece when she was three and a half
years old. Fourteen years ago. At three and a half George was loud and
gregarious and hilarious.
She still is.
Way back then she
had a mass of curly hair and two missing front teeth that gave her a gorgeously
cute lisp. After enduring a long flight to Honolulu to visit Uncle Berty,
Georgina was reluctantly sitting on the very demure and proper Aunty Dana’s
knee with a very grumpy face. She was jet lagged and furious with her older
brother Ben.
“What’s wrong sweetheart?” Aunty Dana asked in her sweet Southern drawl
“Why the sad face?”
“Ben thtole my penthils” George replied.
“Ahm sure he’ll give them back Georgina”
“I don’t want them”
“Aww your brother Benny loves you Georgie”
Dana squeezed
Georgie when she said this and George squirmed.
“I don’t love him”
George replied churlishly
“Oh why Georgie?”
“Coth heth’s a cockthucker”
There remains
some dispute as to whether Dana dropped Georgie in shock at this point or if
she in fact threw her to the ground. Either way Georgina fell backwards and
cracked her head. She bled like a stabbed pig and screamed like a banshee and
we all spent the next six hours at the Honolulu hospital.
She made a full recovery.
She made a full recovery.
Or did she?
Nice one George.
She just read
this and has now stormed off in mock huffiness and indignation.
My brother his
literally swept passed me with a broom and now he is rinsing dishes whist he
makes toast.
He loves to sweep
and clean and cook.
He is a nurturer and
a nester.
I love him
deeply.
I love him
dearly.
Georgie marched
back into the room again and she pushed away my Mac and curled up on my lap. I
asked her if she still loved her boyfriend Rory and she told me that she did. I
asked her if she loved him the same amount or more as six months ago when their
relationship was first consummated and she paused in contemplation then told me
she thought she loved him about the same. When I suggested that perhaps she
should love him more she hesitated again before she told me that she thought
that maybe she did then.
Love him more.
We agreed that
love needed to grow for a relationship to endure and I then pushed her gently
from my knees and asked her not to come back for a while because I wanted to
write. She gave me an enormous hug and a smacking kiss and she said, “I love you Uncle Peter”
I returned her
hug and teared up a little bit and told her that I loved her too.
She then stormed off again.
She then stormed off again.
Practically
living on the beach is not difficult - particularly when you are residing only
a few dozen paces from the shore. The track over the dunes is an overgrown one
but it is well worn in summer and grasses are quickly trampled down. Meals and
drinks and ice are easily and quickly shunted to our spot in the sand and
showers and toilets and refrigeration are but short hops away.
Days commence
with walks and swims and surfs depending on the tides and time of arising.
Someone is usually up before the sun. The thump and wash of the waves is a
peaceful and somehow reassuring constant that is also alluring. It’s sound
beckons and calls and it lulls and soothes.
The sand heats up
quickly when the sun rises and by mid morning the beach fills with swimmers and
surfers and families settling in for the day. Radios are turned on and cricket
commentary is triumphant and joyous as the English continue to be given a
thumping on our home turf.
The Ashes have
been returned.
Summer sounds are
waves crashing and children laughing and seagulls shrieking. They are the
distant buzz of lawnmowers and the splashing and thwacks of belly flops in
suburban swimming pools. Summer is being lulled to sleep by a cacophony of
cicadas trilling and chirping their symphonies in a uniquely Australian lullaby.
Summer is the smell of barbeques and frangipani and fresh-mowed grass. It is
the sting of sand as beach towels are shaken. It is the taste of watermelon and
ice-cream and strawberries.
We all got hungry
late in the afternoon so I sent Georgie and Totty out into the garden to pick
basil that was grown in big pots out on the back verandah. Two boys who I
didn’t know were made to peel and crush six gloves of garlic while another boy
who I did know – for he was my nephew Ben - grated Parmesan cheese from a huge
hard block that I had bought the day before. I stepped into the walk-in pantry
to grab the cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil that I needed for my world
famous pesto sauce but I closed the door behind me so that I could also prepare
the secret ingredient that distinguishes my great pesto from simply good pesto.
I then whipped
together all of the ingredients in a big food processor while the kids watched.
The delicious aroma of basil was released in the first spin, and it became even
more pungent when the garlic and cheese and oil were added. The children were
all alert to the secret ingredient and I made them turn their back whilst I
added it to the spinning sauce.
I use my
grandmother’s recipe for my pesto sauce who in turn had the recipe passed down
to her from her grandmother. When we were each passed on the recipe we swore to
never to divulge the secret ingredient to anyone other than the people we
loved.
I have taken this
vow very seriously.
As the sun began
to set about a dozen of us sat around my big mahogany table and we ate bowls of
penne noodles smothered in the pesto sauce. We ate it with hot crisp bread
sticks and a fresh garden salad and we washed it all down with a couple of
cheeky little bottles of chianti.
It was the taste
of Summer.
It was the taste
of home.