Cape Cod summer memories

Salt air, sandy feet, and ice cream sundaes

When the boys were small, one of our summertime retreats was the Cape. We would pack up bathing suits, boogie boards, beach towels, plastic pails and shovels, suntan lotion, beach chairs, and a wagon and head down through the city to Route 3, across the Sagamore Bridge to Route 6, which would deliver us salty, sticky air and the promise of ocean breezes. When D was small himself, his grandparents had purchased a small, three-room cottage that was nestled in among fifty or so other tiny cottages (before tiny houses were a thing). From mid May to mid October, the Village was open to its summer residents. The dirt roads and 5 mph signs posted every 20 feet or so made it an ideal place for kids to ride their bikes while parents relaxed on the front patio or hammock. The private beach was a ten-minute walk away, across a road, and then up through another tiny cottage community—this one built right on top of dunes that could have been preserved to ensure the integrity of the beach for generations to come.

The beach, though quite small, was delightful for small boys just learning to play and swim in the gentle ocean waves. They dug holes in the sand, delighted by the appearance of water once they went deep enough. They buried themselves and my feet under sand, gritty and warm with the hot July sun. They ran and jumped off the top of the slope heading down to the small beach. They collected shells and sand crabs, keeping their collections in the classic, brightly colored beach pail with the white, scalloped plastic handle. We built drip sand castles together, sometimes making elaborate moats and road systems to surround our palatial creation.

The boys’ attention span for the beach was not particularly long. The Atlantic ocean can be cold, even on the hottest days of summer. Much time was spent biking through the Village or along the Cape Cod Rail Trail, a relatively flat, multi-use recreational path that passed some of the Cape’s pristine freshwater ponds and cranberry bogs and meandered through the town centers from Dennis to Wellfleet. The boys traveled miles along that rail trail—first on bike seats or in trailers, then on balance bikes, and finally, on their own two-wheeled bikes. We would take them to jump on trampolines, stretched across a pit level with the ground; ride go karts—starting out next to one of us as a passenger, then next to us as the driver, and finally solo in their own kart; see summer movies in the too-cold movie theater; or sit at picnic tables to eat hot dogs or fried seafood from a beloved and familiar Cape establishment.

I spent the past week on the Cape, without my boys. I went with a friend to attend a course for my professional license. In the morning, we were students, each in a different class, learning about ways to be better psychologists, provide our clients with a more healing space. I was excited for the opportunity to learn again, to feel my mind stretching and working, and pulling from the recesses of my mind things that were once more easily accessed such as what a Mann-Whitney U test was and the difference between statistical significance and real-world application. In addition to the numeric, quantitative world of harder science, the class I took pushed on bigger questions such as how different states of consciousness could open us up beyond our well-worn neural pathways into greater connectedness and even mystical experiences.

In the afternoon, time was ours. We spent it exploring the nature paths around a nearby pond; walking the tidal flats on the bay side of the Cape; walking at the edge of the briskly cold Atlantic Ocean; biking the same Cape Cod Rail Trail; playing Boggle; watching the Olympics; talking; driving down Route 28 to visit a favorite ice cream place; and watching blue jay, chickadee, Eastern phoebe, tufted titmouse, sparrows, and nuthatches. Everywhere I went, whether I had been there before or not, I was reminded of summers past with growing boys. The sticky, heavy air that was tolerable in the shade of the scrubby Cape Cod pines or along the water’s edge with a constant cool breeze reminded me of muggy nights, walking with boys riding in strollers or wagons or on shoulders and later, on bikes, to our favorite ice cream shop. A small voice exclaiming excitedly as a bunny hopped quickly across the road or a lightening bug lit up a small part of the path ahead. The little ridges in the pavement on the bike path reminding me of worry about the jostle to a little person being pulled behind in a trailer or sitting atop the back wheel in a seat. Driving past the fruit stand, remembering small hands wanting to help pick out corn from the wagon in the front, always overflowing with fresh, yellow and white summer corn. The big lobster pot being readied back at the cottage, filled 3/4 of the way with water to boil the corn and fill the tiny cottage with heat.

I hadn’t been to the Cape in a few years. As the boys got older, they outgrew the space and activities. Other things were competing for everyone’s time and then COVID happened and suddenly, it had been four years since I had last crossed over the Cape Cod Canal. I was somewhat surprised by the pull of nostalgia, of memories of smaller boys, less complicated times. Remembering Z’s excitement about ordering a lobster, the careful way he would put on his plastic lobster bib, set out his tools for cracking that lobster shell. The bird feeders he loved to get at the Mill Store and then paint on the picnic table or inside on the small kitchen table. The hours the boys spent playing with Lincoln Logs and a large plastic boat. Little hands helping to plant the bright white and red impatiens D’s grandmother loved. My parents accompanying us down to the cottage the day after I defended my dissertation, L not even one yet, and Z an energetic three. Places drawing me right back to a time even before my children were born, when D and I would escape the hot city to spend the weekend with his grandparents at the cottage. A Red Sox game seemed always to be playing on the TV, his grandmother talking animatedly to the players, as if they could heed her advice. Spaghetti dinners cooked much too early on a hot summer day that you enjoyed despite the weather and the time because it was made with such love. Driving down Route 28, his grandfather at the wheel of his big, long white Cadillac whistling away to some easy listening tune, his grandmother humming along, heading to the Candy Co. to get penuche fudge for his grandmother, vanilla for me. Wishing, even so many years after they have been gone, that they could have known their great grandsons. Knowing just how much they would have delighted in these boys, these young men.

Recently, I was recounting a story from one of our camping trips to a friend. Z was also there and rolled his eyes, “You tell this story all the time,” he said. “I don’t tell it all the time,” I protested, truly thinking it was not one of the stories in regular rotation. “Okay, maybe just every month or so,” he relented. I think it’s probably twice a year, at most, but who knows. I wonder how much the stories I recount will stick in his memory, what will define his and his brothers’ childhood memories. Memory is such a fascinating thing. The story I was recounting was one event that occurred on a three-day trip. Many other things happened in that 72-hour period. I was sharing the story of an owl with two little owlets hooting for what seemed like hours on our first night and swooshing back and forth incredibly close to our tent. I remember the people at the site across from us leaving their food out and the chipmunks and squirrels having quite the feast. I remember kayaking around the little inlet surrounding our campsite. I remember it was not car camping and we had to bring all of our camping gear from the car to the campsite in a gray, sturdy plastic wheelbarrow. I remember it was enough work that we didn’t go back to that campsite again. What have I forgotten? What other memories might be buried somewhere deep in the camping files of my mind? What would it take to retrieve those memories? How do my memories compare with those of my boys? Of D?

We have had so very many moments with these boys. When they were young, we spent as much time as we could camping and heading to the Cape. So much, that I would sometimes argue with D that we needed just one weekend at home on a summer weekend. Going away with littles is hard. And I remember the hard—all the prep and lists and packing for camping. The work of getting dinner ready, cooked, and cleaned up at a campsite. Putting sunscreen on sandy bodies that were always moving. Running after toddlers who didn’t quite understand the power of the ocean. Walking quickly behind a boy on a balance bike, wishing I had thought to put sandals on my feet. Trying to lull little ones to sleep in unfamiliar beds or camping mats. Waking at 5 or 6 am because unfamiliar spaces meant earlier wakings. I also remember the good—the excitement to head to a beloved hot dog stand, to get an ice cream sundae complete with a fresh cherry. The laughter around the campfire as the boys told stories with farts and fire and bears. The joy as they jumped into the air or the ocean. The determination on a little face as he pedaled hard to move fast, the excitement of the first time solo driving around the go kart track. The stickiness of faces and hands after biting into a triangle of fresh watermelon. The anticipation felt on the early morning walk to the local bakery to get donuts or cinnamon rolls, fresh out of the oven. The pride in helping to build a fire.

I wonder what has taken hold in their minds. What memories make them smile. What says childhood to them. When they cross the Sagamore Bridge and the windows go down, the a/c is shut off, and the smell of that salty air fills the car, what do they think of? What memories do they hold that I have forgotten or maybe wasn’t even part of?

I hope that those memories are more joy and laughter and togetherness than sadness or feeling alone. That they have a fondness for the ocean, the scrubby pines of the Cape, for riding bikes along a path that was once a railroad track, for being outside, together, with people who love them so completely, so unconditionally, so unbounded.

As you wander through this troubled world

In search of all the beautiful things

You can close your eyes when you’re miles away

And hear my voice like a serenade

How long do you wanna be loved?

Is forever enough?

-The Chicks

Wilson/Strayer/Maguire/Maines

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!