Air, thick as wool, draped this beach city. Flies scout for decaying sweaty skin and ladies and gentlemen remain inside shuttered rooms with low lights and high fans and air conditioning and drinks with clinkless ice.

The 2 block walk to the beach felt impossible. I was listless and helpless and hot. My kid's chatter ceased and I knew this could be deadly. There was no negotiating the ocean. We dove in without reference to jelly fish stingers, skate fish, even sharks. The cold, somewhat icy water felt refreshing and clean and necessary. We sizzled as our body temperature lowered.

I lay on a child's float listening to the close splattering of the clear water near my ear. Cool rocking made me sleepy. I watched as a elderly man tried to make his way into the waves. It was about 7 PM, the lifeguards long gone, the beach almost empty. Harry was wobbling his stiff body out to neck deep water. The soft waves persuaded him back as he insisted on going forward. His head's only position is leaning to the left and down. Each wave splashed his face unregretably like a slap from an angry lover. One after the other he endured his slaps. I looked toward the beach to see if there was anyone with him. I saw his wife, with her hands on her hips, angrily thrusting her upper body and face forward. Her head shook back and forth. I could see she was terrified. Harry dipped his head down and the wave pushed his soft gray hair back. He was slick and wet and satisfied. He did not rush. He did not fret or smile. He dipped and wavered. He did not fall.

I floated toward his wife Anne. "Do you think he is O.K. out there?" I asked.
"He is an idiot, that is what he is ...a big, stupid idiot!"
"He has Parkinson's disease and if he falls he will not be able to get up."

"I'll watch him and if he falls I"ll use the float to help get him in to shore."

We talked about where we both lived and neighbors we both knew. I asked about her grandchildren who live in Italy. I know this family because I met Harry with his granddaughter, Sophia, one day when she was speaking with an Italian accent. Harry's Jewish son married an Italian woman and they live with their children in Verona, Italy. The kids visit every summer. Sofia holds Harry's hand even though she is about 11 year old. She speaks with him and love radiates from her words. Of course, I think of my own grandfathers and how special that love really is. No one can know except the grandpop and the grandchild or another that has experienced it. It is a love of mutual protection and admiration and awe. It is hope and angst before you know why, it is friendship of the purest form. It is your very first love. No matter how much you love your parents, a grandfather's love is a bit romantic and a bit fairy tale-ish. As I watched Harry NOT stumble, I thought of Sophia. I thought of how Harry must love her and this beach, this ocean, this hot little town where he lives year round. I thought of how this may be his last free alone dip in the sea. And I thought of how these loves will never die. ...not even when Harry dies.

His wife was livid. When he faltered out of the water she stomped off the beach and left him to pick up his own sandals, to cross the street alone, to walk dripping wet through the streets without a towel (she took it). I thought of how stupid of Harry and how stupid of Anne.

I read the book...a short one by Steve Martin...I read everything he writes. He is multi talented. His writing is clear and precise and easy to read.

The movie...was really good..almost better than the book. He was very good in it. Nothing outrageous or exciting...just a movie about a girl who works in the glove department at Saks. He is the older boyfriend. Subtle.

I was thinking of becoming a vegan. HA!

It will never happen.

I would love to be pure and lithe and inconsiderate when looking at a pig as dinner. Then, I read this...in "Reckless Appetites"

from Twain's "A Tramp Abroad"

And imagine an angel suddenly sweeping down out of a better land and setting before him a mightly porterhouse steak an inch and a half thick, hot and sputtering from the griddle, dusted with fragrant pepper, enriched with little melting bits of butter of the most unimpeachable freshness and genuineness, and the precious juices of the meat trickling out and joining the gravy, archipelagoed with mushrooms; a township or two of tender, yellowish fat gracing an outlying district of this ample country of beefsteak; the long white bone which divides the sirloin from the tenderloin still in its place; and imagine that an angel also adds a great cup of homemade American coffee, with the cream-a-froth on top, some real butter, firm and yellow and fresh; some smoking hot biscuits, a plate of hot buckweat cakes, with transparent syrup, could words describe the gratitude of this exile?

A plate of carrots and brown rice just isn't normal!

Today we talked about who is and why there are morning people?

I laughed as I agreed on the positives of early rising. Today, I awoke early and "got more done"..meaning cleaning and reading. I enjoyed it; although, I am, by nature, a night person. I thought of Ben Franklin: "Early to bed and Early to rise, makes a man, healthy, wealthy and wise".

I hate that quote. Part of me believes it. Part of me just can't help who I am. Early to rise just makes me exhausted. I do believe most of us get done what we have to do in our own due time. I am a very productive person. Just not in the early morning. The night allows for dreams and wishes and plans and fantasy.

It is about 10 pm and my house is alive. All the lights are on, I am writing and thinking of a hundred writing ideas with vigor. The invisible air is so balmy I could jar it. The darkness has taken over the streets that are interspersed with a few passing cars. The bus is still running. The ocean waves it's salty odor over the streets and passes through my wide open windows. I gesture with a silent welcoming nod. The moon rules the waves as it does me. My second floor balconey is strewn with delightful pink swan lights. I wish to be thought of as bohemian. Cinderella was always my favorite fairy tale. Midnight and Pumpkins and carriages and princes seem real. The author of that story was certainly a night owl.

In the morning I will partially forget my big plans and wishes and become once again a conventional wife and mother. Thoughts of tonight will make me smile and I will think of this as a semi-silly notion. My plans will be almost impossible to implement. I will clean and cook and sweep and wonder. My prince will fill my mind as I try to recall my dreams.

At night, I feel more like me than at any other time. Especially if free from exhaustion from work or a too hurried day. I had a couple of days off from work and find the world full of wonder and awe. The meaning of work and the serious issues to ponder keep me from inhaling the gift of a day, especially the night. Now, with this wiggle room, I find myself so grateful for the beach. I find time to soak in a hot tub and pray and be grateful for my Cinderella life... at night it is always so.

The younger kids are watching wrestling. Cheers are heard from the living room. I laugh and wonder if the kids allow their minds to wonder to the outside, the night, the sky, the clouds and the stars. I wonder if they appreciate the dew and the balm and the sound of the distant waves. I can hear them. I can smell them. I can feel the air douse my hot flash sweaty skin with coolness.

While my morning friends are starting their REM sleep, I am doing laundry and planning tomorrow nights dinner. I am chatting with my kids and reading.

In the morning, I am planning to exercise right after a cup of hot coffee. I will do an errand or two before the kids awake. Ah, hopeful thoughts that usually do not manifest themselves as I see it now. As most mornings, many people will try to talk to me. I will not smile or contribute much to the conversation. All I can say is "I am not a morning person". Secretly, I am mourning my lost slipper.

I remember when my kids were younger. I used to be up late reading and thinking about them all snuggled in their beds. That type of thinking is no longer possible as I will be too tired to dreamily smile at my lounging children by the time they get to bed. They are teenagers. 2 a.m. is snack time to them.

School is about 6 weeks away. Then, we must all turn ourselves back into morning people. For now we will avoid the dismay and our carriages will not turn into pumpkins. We will, for the next 6 weeks, be driven by gilded carriages through clouds of dreams and wishes and desires until it is time for the glass slipper to be fitted.

And fit it will.

"When mediocracy is the enemy, history will be made".