Campground Beach

There is a place that you won't find highlighted on any maps, or written about in travel books; there is nothing about the place that is particularly remarkable. It is just a beach on the bay side of Cape Cod. There isn't even a clearly marked sign telling you that it's there, or what its called. It's simply a beach at the end of Campground Road, in Eastham.

Campground Beach is special to me because I grew up on it. It's a 15 minute walk from my childhood home, in which I still live. Granted, I rent the other side of the duplex now from my parents, and lived a few other places first, but I ended up back home.

Campground Road is a long straight road with a speed limit of 20 mph. Depending on the time of day, it's better to walk on one side or the other to stay in the shade. I often walk it barefoot, especially on the way home, but I don't recommend it to the uninitiated-soft-footed-people. I avoid wearing shoes as often as possible, even in the middle of winter, so I can walk across our shell driveway barefoot without an issue.

My mother would take my older brother and I down to that beach almost every day. At low tide, there are rows of sandbars, numbering 9 or 10. Between each bar is a warm safe strip of water, perfect for small children. The water is full of snails, crabs and little fish that kept us entertained for hours. We'd build castles in the sand and catch hermit crabs to populate it with. We're lucky for our olive skin tone or we'd have been red children, being out in the sun so much.

As I grew older, Campground beach became a kind of sanctuary for me. Whenever I was having a bad day, or in a bad mood, I'd walk or drive down and sit by the water on the rocks. I tried to teach a friend of mine to drive stick shift in the large parking lot (turned out to be hopeless, but at least he tried). I sat in my car with friends, lamenting about high school drama and life BS. I would spend hours at the beach, doing nothing but walking, or sitting and listening to the wind and waves.

Two years ago, I spent the late winter, spring and summer collecting piles of driftwood that my father used to build the arbor I was married under. He used the leftovers to make a beautiful fence to border the gardens at the house. Myself and most of my family gathered hundred of heart shaped and striped rocks to use as wedding favors. Many of the rocks came from Campground, and I still grab the heart shaped ones whenever they appear.

I love to go in the winter, on days when the wind rips along the shore. I can stand on the top of the piles of sand the town places at the edge of the parking lot to (hopefully) prevent erosion and damage. On the best days, the wind blows so hard I can lean forward close my eyes and pretend I'm flying. I am a grown woman, yes, but I still do this. I am reminded of the quote by Benjamin Franklin, "We do not stop playing because we grow old,we grow old because we stop playing." Campground beach reminds me of my childhood; it reminds me to let my imagination live fully, and to not be embarrassed to pretend I can fly.

Oddly Relieved

I finally had a day where I had nowhere to be, and nothing to do. I'd planned on going out on my father's boat to the beach for the day. I haven't had a chance all summer, what with work, people visiting, obligations, and trying to market Catching Bodel. So it would stand to reason that this morning, when I woke up to see full cloud cover and a cold breeze, I would have been devastated. I was however, relieved.

Living on Cape Cod, I feel an almost obligation to enjoy what makes the cape so attractive to tourists. I love the beach, truly I do. But I don't go in the summer very often. Largely, that's due to my summer work schedule, but I could still get there if I really tried. But I don't. Because the reality is that I don't like the beach in the summer because it's full of people. That might sound harsh, but it's just my reality. I'm an introvert, and the beach is my sanctuary. I like to go there to be alone, to walk and listen to the wind and the waves. I don't go to cling to a tiny little square of sand surrounded by shouting children, overly enthusiastic college kids trying too hard to have a good time, people who make very daring fashion decisions, and the countless others who populate the beach. Everyone is there to have a good time, and I'm all for that. My good time just doesn't include lots of people. So on a day like today, while the beach would have been nice, I was delighted that it was overcast and I had an excuse to just stay home.

Sometimes it's hard to take time for myself, because when push comes to shove, what I like to DO is, well, NOTHING. I don't like going out very much. I love movies, but don't want to be in a crowded theater. That's why I love the drive-in, because I am outside and get a lot of space to myself. I love the beach, but only when no one is on it. So I go in the winter, fall and spring. I like to walk in the woods (what little woods we have on this sandbar), but again, only when the paths aren't clogged with people. This is not an anti-tourist rant. The economy of the Cape depends on tourism, and people should come and enjoy themselves. I just choose not to join them. I'll stay home, read a book in my hammock in the back yard. I'll let the tortoise wander around the yard and follow him around aimlessly. I'll sunbathe on the private beach known as my back deck. I'll take my overcast days and hold them close, because they are my favorite. That probably makes me different, but I'm used to that.

Home

Instead of a place on the Cape this week, I'm going to write about an event. Well, it happened in a place, a very special place in Harwich, where seven new affordable homes are being built by Habitat for Humanity. One of these homes will belong to a very dear friend of mine, and her two wonderful children.

I want to write this blog about Cape Cod, but not only the beauty here, but the realities underneath it. There is an entire generation of people born and raised here that are being forced to leave due to the outrageous cost of housing. Little ramshackle non-winterized cabins going for 300K, nevermind actual 3 bedroom homes for families. I'm lucky enough that my father owns a duplex and I can rent the other side. Most of my friends my age either live with family, or in government housing.

Everything is expensive here, and unfortunately, that expense also comes with the reality of very little industry. Year round jobs are not plentiful, forcing most people to work insane hours during three months of the year in order to barely scratch by through the winter.

So in this harsh reality overlying a beautiful place, it's wonderful to be a part of the Habitat program. To see these young families have a place to call home that they can actually afford. My friends kids are going to have a yard, with a fire pit, and a place for the dog to run that's infinitely better than the tiny balcony on her current apartment.

I stood by with my friends phone, recording her raising the first wall of her new home. I watched as her seven year old and three year old chased each other around the rough plywood floors, asking where their rooms would be. I put in a few volunteer hours after the first two walls were raised and the house was blessed. I loved that every nail I hammered in was building a home for my friend and her kids.

I stood beside her and pictured the house finished. The kitchen window overlooking the backyard, where the kids can play and the dog can run. It's all torn up dirt right now, with piles of lumber and other building supplies scattered around. But I can see what it will be. It's more than just the wood and nails and dirt and effort. It's the center of life. It's a place to come back to, to rest, a safe haven. Everyone deserves to have a home.

White Cedar Swamp, Wellfleet

One of my favorite places to walk on the lower cape is the White Cedar Swamp in Wellfleet. One side of the parking lot leads to a beautiful view of the ocean. I usually head over that side to spend a moment looking at the water. One evening I caught the sunset at just the right time.

The other side of the parking lot has a trail leading down into the swamp. There are a bunch of fire roads back there as well. I haven't taken the time to really explore them. The main walk is a circle, and there is a boardwalk through the cedar swamp. It is a beautiful walk throughout the year, though when it snows badly, the park service closes it.

During the spring, the swamp still has little caches of ice and snow in the shadows that don't ever really see light. The moss turns green and the ferns and little vines start twining their way up the cedar trunks. It smells like wet ground and foliage, a thick, earthy smell that I've always found comforting. The boardwalk shifts and cracks the little bits of ice that hide under it's perpetual shade. There aren't any frogs yet, but every once and a while you catch the hint of a squirrel or chipmunk scuttling through the close knit trees.

I don't get to walk much in the summer because of my work schedule. And honestly, as an introvert, I prefer to walk alone. During the summer, the small woodsy paths are full of people. I hope they enjoy themselves, genuinely I do, but I prefer to spend my sparse free time enjoying the solitude of my backyard. Besides, due to the nature of swamps, summertime also means that there are mosquitoes everywhere. My husband and tried to go for a walk once, much later in the spring than we normally stop going, and the mosquitoes were so thick that we could barely see. It was like looking through a screen. Needless to say, we left quickly, running like crazy people, swinging our arms to try and keep from losing all of our blood.

Fall is a beautiful time to visit the cedar swamp. The masses of people are gone, leaving a few stragglers, but solitude is achievable. Cedars don't change much over the seasons, but the scattering of other plants loose their leaves and start to wither. The frogs are still out early enough in the fall. They hop and squeak at you as you pass, making little splashes. The sun plays through the trunks of the trees and dances on the water.

In the winter, the quiet is absolute. The only sound is the crunch of the snow under your boots, the swish of your coat. The spider web of water is frozen, a thin layer of glass. The moss is still green, though its a darker, more struggling color than the bright blazing spring and summer. The ice breaks as you walk along the boardwalk, creaking and crunching. The sun plays through the trees, reflecting off the snow and ice. It's the most beautiful in the winter. And I know how lucky I am that I am one of the few who is here to see it.

Welcome to Cape Cod

I've honestly been at a loss as far as this blog goes. I am a brutally honest person, which frequently gets me into trouble. I'm better at weaving a long story than writing snippets about things. What things to write about? Who will care? What can I write that won't incriminate/surprise/irritate/embarrass the people in my life? It's why I stick to fiction where I can cleverly hide my real life inside obscurity for the safety of the innocent.

That being said, I need to write something. Been struggling with this for a while, obviously, if anyone cares to take note of the lack of posting on this thing. Should I stick to funny little things? Should I talk about life on Cape Cod? The real life, not the fun fun times of a tourist? Can I write about that without being overly harsh on the visitors that, while necessary, make life extremely difficult and often unpleasant? I'll give it a try.

Welcome to Cape Cod. It is a beautiful place full of beaches and fish restaurants, a horrific overpopulation of seals that people thought were cute until they attracted droves of sharks, whale watches, charter boats, and tourist traps every few feet selling the same brightly colored beach chairs and bottles full of white sand that clearly did not come from Cape Cod. I'm particularly fond of one entrepreneur who sells empty capped bottled with Cape Cod Air written on them,

I was born on Cape Cod, but my parents moved here when they were children from Connecticut in the 70's.(Both my mother and father from CT, from different parts of the state on different years). There was a building boom around that time and Cape Cod was an affordable place to live, and my grandfather was a mason. My family has lived here long enough to be free of the term washashore, given to anyone who moves to the cape. They have become locals after living here for a few decades. It takes that long to belong here, and the true born Cape Codders, like myself, are a very strange bunch.

I spent part of my childhood living in and around Boston while my mother completed college, though I always felt like the Cape was my home. I was here on weekends with my father, and during holidays and vacation weeks. I also lived in central Mass for a few years, but moved permanently back to the Cape to live with my dad when I was 15. 15 years later, I am still here.

So while I have always considered Cape Cod my home, I have a different view of it than someone who never had the chance to live anywhere else. It's an interesting place where 9 months of the year its small towns, and 3 months its a crazy madhouse that puts cities to shame. Most people make the majority of their yearly income in those 3 months, and in reality, 2 seeing as June doesn't start hopping till the kids get out of school. The winters are long and there is very little work and pretty much everything is closed.

So each week I'll write a little something about what it's like to live on Cape Cod as a local. I'll share crazy stories about the things people say and do when they are on vacation. I've always said that they take your brain at the bridge as a toll. Don't worry, the names and places will be cleverly disguised to protect the innocent, as previously stated. If people enjoy reading it, that's wonderful. If nothing else, it's a chance to learn about a particular perspective on a place and way of life.

Writing with cats

It's hard to find time and space to write. I don't require much, really. Just a soft place to recline with my laptop, adequate lighting, and the ability to move my hands on the keyboard. I don't even need silence. I've learned to write with the TV on in the background. Still, I prefer music of my choosing or for certain scenes, quiet. But I also prefer to write in my living room, so I can't expect my husband to sit quietly while I monopolize the space. He tends to go to bed a lot earlier than I do, so I get my writing quiet time late at night. I write best at that time. I get too distracted during the day with things I should be doing.

So last night after he went to bed, I settled on the couch to work on my newest novel. It's actually not new, it's something I started a long time ago. It was a difficult decision to start working on it again. It will be the third book in the Catching Bodel series (seeing as Becoming Grace Divine, the second novel, is already written). What makes this one difficult is that I've chosen to write about some serious issues. I was in an abusive relationship when I was 19, and it changed my life. I'm happy to say that I've recovered from it, grown from it, and am stronger for it. But I've always wanted to try and make a difference for other people who are suffering from, or have suffered, abuse. So I set out to write a novel about Gray and her road to recovery.

I'm struggling with the novel, to be honest. I love the character. I love her strength and she has a great sense of humor. But it's difficult to write about the trauma she went through. It's not the same as what I did, I changed things for dramatic effect, but also to distance myself a little from it. I don't want to write my experience. That is not my intention. I wanted to create a woman who could be anyone, and show her transition from victim to survivor. But when it comes to writing the intense scenes, when the story gets too close to my old reality, writing it becomes almost painful.

Anyway, back to the the title of this post. I was struggling on the couch to write a particularly difficult scene, and my gray cat Sylvanas was stretched out on my legs as usual. She is not a particularly cuddly cat. She hates being picked up and tends to keep to herself, unlike my other two cats. But when Silly is in a certain mood, she chooses to show affection. Such as late at night when I write. Her spot is on my legs. She is a large cat, the biggest of my 3. She stretches out from ankle to thigh, to be sure Physgig and Echo can't join her.

This creates a problem, unfortunately. Because both Echo and Physgig LOVE to cuddle. They are constantly on top of me or my husband. So when Silly takes up that much space, and the laptop is on my lap, there isn't enough room for all 3 cats on me. Echo is a large fat black cat, and she NEEDS to sleep on your chest, as close to suffocating you as possible. Unfortunately, due to her size, I can't type while she's on me like that, so I have to tell her no. She looks devastated and sometimes manages to find a place to jam herself between me and the couch, under my arm, so that I can keep writing and snuggle her at the same time. But mostly I have to shove her away.

Physgig is a very small orange and white ball of fluff. She weighs in at a whopping 7 lbs and likes to curl into tiny little balls. She can sit on my chest and I can see over her and type perfectly around her. Echo is insanely jealous that Physgig gets to sit on me like that and she can't. Many wars have been fought in my house over who gets to sit on the best parts of Catmom. (I know, I'm one cat short of being a crazy cat lady.)

So last night while I was struggling to write the emotional scene, Physgig jumped up on my chest and curled up. But she didn't do her usual routine. Instead, she plopped down and tucked her head under my chin, something she does when she knows I'm upset. She lays on her side and leans back, pressing the back of her neck and the top of her head under my jaw. She keeps her head pressed back against me and purrs with this adorable look on her face. I gave her kisses and kept on writing, instantly feeling better. The words came more easily and before I knew it, it was 2 am and the scene was written.

So sometimes it's really frustrating to write with a cat draped over your arms, or stepping on your keyboard. But I wouldn't give my fur babies up for anything. They make me a better writer. Even if their tail whapping the keyboard adds a few extra letters.

Another snippet

I hope my last post didn't encourage the weather. I'm very tired of the snow at this point and look forward to it melting. Though it is beautiful, I drive a rear wheel drive little truck also known as a sled, and I've grown weary of white knuckle driving. But it seems like its warming up, so there's hope we'll actually see the ground before my book comes out in May. I didn't post anything last week, though I have been writing a lot so I hope that counts for something. Here is a short snippet (giving credit for the term to Joan from my writing group) from Catching Bodel...

                Mop loped over and stuck his head into my laundry basket. He pulled his head out and grinned at me, a lacy pink thong hanging out of his mouth.

                “Dammit, Mop. Drop it!” I ordered.

                Sensing a great game in the making, the lunatic dog bounced away from me. I gave chase. He was old, how fast could he really go? He ran in tight circles around me, panting happily and staying just out of reach.

                “I’m going to skin you and make you into a rug,” I yelled at his fluffy butt as he evaded my grasp. I lunged for him, lost my balance when I missed and slipped onto my ass. I produced a creative string of profanity that died suddenly when I noticed the pair of work boots that were planted about two inches from my bare feet. I looked up at the gigantic man who was standing over me. He was a wall of broad chest and thick arms wrapped in a T-shirt and worn jeans. I felt like an unlucky quarterback about to be clobbered by a runaway tackle.

                Mop had noticed the man standing there and bounced over. He barked his greeting, dropping my lacy pink thong onto the man’s boots.