The Stuff They Always Forget

July 11 2015

There were no children on the beach

when we paddled up.

Just middle-aged couples,

soft-bodied and pale-skinned

glowing red.

Along with their dogs;

a motley collection of under-trained, over-fed,

of high-strung well-bred

and goofy love-bug.

Perhaps their children are grown

with kids of their own.

Or perhaps, like me, they are childless;

the uncomplicated affection of dogs

our only posterity.

Inexhaustible, despite the heat,

splashing after balls

snapping at horseflies.

Grilling meat

the smell of grease, burning-off.

A man sleeps, others gossip,

someone wading to her knees

in stagnant water.

Where there should be sand castles, and little shrieks,

double-dare teens

testing how deep it gets.

Although it's 9 o'clock,

and while the summer sun persists

it's too late for kids anyway.

Who, by now, would have piled into cars

feet sandy, bathing suits wet,

leaving an empty beach

and the stuff they always forget.

Trampled hats, and plastic toys,

an orphaned sock

so small

its sweetness is almost unbearable.

Middle-aged couples

are draining the last of the beer

and quickly collecting their gear,

hoping to beat

the twilight mosquitoes.

Calling out to the dogs

who pretend not to hear;

just like the kids

who whined, and dawdled.

I've realized lately the indolent languor of summer has less to do with the heat than it does with the length of day. I'm a very slow and late starter, but in July, there is no penalty for this: I can have a leisurely day, do tons of stuff, and never once bother consulting the clock.

Today was such a day, and by the time the pooch and I headed-off in the canoe, it was evening. We ended up at the main beach (a lot bigger than the boat put-in I recently wrote about in Beach), probably around 7:30. It's a nice expanse of sand, and such a gradual drop-off you can wade way out and still be up to your knees. There is a scattering of picnic tables, along with some hibachi-type barbecues welded to vertical posts.

It struck me that the place was entirely populated with middle-aged couples and dogs. No teens or twenty-somethings. No kids. Of course, this isn't usually the case. But it did make me think of the prevalence nowadays of childless couples (or, in my case, childless singles) and their (our) "fur-babies".

Substitute children? In some cases, yes. Except -- as in the uncomplicated affection of dogs -- a helluva lot easier!

Selfish, or selfless? That is, in an over-crowded world, is having children selfish, an act of genetic vanity? Or is childlessness the selfish course, living an irresponsible (meaningless?) life of personal comfort that contributes nothing to society's long term interest?

The poem, of course, is an entirely unsuitable medium to debate this. But if read closely enough, I think it does hint at a kind of dissatisfaction: maybe in the man sleeping away the day, or that the main activity appears to be the grilling of meat, or the almost desperate drinking. There is an implied questioning of the choice that's been made, of the hypothetical life that might have been. And there is a kind of inchoate longing, most notably in these 3 lines: an orphaned sock/ so small/ its sweetness is almost unbearable.