Yesterday was one of those peaceful days that just sneaks up on me, part of its pleasure being that it is unplanned, unplannable, and unhurried. My son was home, there were odds and ends to take care of around the house—some of which included focused sniffing and mailing of decants of course—and the weather was cloudless dry low 80s, perfect in other words.
Around four o'clock, I suggested we go to the Mentor Headlands, one of several beaches on Lake Erie in or near Cleveland, notable for it's well-protected dunes. One way or another, we didn't leave the house until nearly seven o'clock, and, having not driven there in a long time, I got pleasantly lost, saved only by my attentiveness to shadow which warned me I had strayed from my northerly course. We got there. Each beach near me has it's own character. Edgewater Park is urban, great for people watching, with great lawns for frisbee and kite flying, and a marina nearby. The city skyline is visible. Gordon Park is all breakwall, fishing lines, and hope. Mentor is one beach by day, busy and buzzing with radios and the happy high-pitched glee of children, and entirely another thing after the dinner hour. Nearly empty, it has a mood of ecstatic quiet.
As we walked from our car, past the trees and onto the sand, the view was almost monochromatic, sandy blue if you can imagine, save for a backlit multicolored beach umbrella punctuating the shoreline like a little jewel. Clusters of people—singles, couples, families—unselfconsciously enjoyed life. One 30-something couple sat back to back, like bookends, others sat side by side facing the water and the imminent sunset. Little children were intently absorbed in digging, or splashing, or just picking up some little rock or twig to examine. My son elected to meditate on the beach, and I walked the dune, coming up on five doe and two speckled fawns browsing the grass. Here and there I detected the smell of flowers I couldn't see. The milkweeds had long become pods, tho I swear it was that heliotrope-like smell—found indeed in L'Heure Bleue—that wafted like a whisper. I had thought of L'Heure Bleue as the ultimate indoor fragrance until just then, and I did think of that loved Guerlain standing in the dunes as the sun was sinking. No melancholy, just that ecstatic quiet that can never be willed, only happened on and recognized with a wistful gratitude.
Here's a photo of the Mentor Headlands beach from another year, on a similar "found" day, at an earlier hour, the magic being a rare balmy day in mid-October.
Around four o'clock, I suggested we go to the Mentor Headlands, one of several beaches on Lake Erie in or near Cleveland, notable for it's well-protected dunes. One way or another, we didn't leave the house until nearly seven o'clock, and, having not driven there in a long time, I got pleasantly lost, saved only by my attentiveness to shadow which warned me I had strayed from my northerly course. We got there. Each beach near me has it's own character. Edgewater Park is urban, great for people watching, with great lawns for frisbee and kite flying, and a marina nearby. The city skyline is visible. Gordon Park is all breakwall, fishing lines, and hope. Mentor is one beach by day, busy and buzzing with radios and the happy high-pitched glee of children, and entirely another thing after the dinner hour. Nearly empty, it has a mood of ecstatic quiet.
As we walked from our car, past the trees and onto the sand, the view was almost monochromatic, sandy blue if you can imagine, save for a backlit multicolored beach umbrella punctuating the shoreline like a little jewel. Clusters of people—singles, couples, families—unselfconsciously enjoyed life. One 30-something couple sat back to back, like bookends, others sat side by side facing the water and the imminent sunset. Little children were intently absorbed in digging, or splashing, or just picking up some little rock or twig to examine. My son elected to meditate on the beach, and I walked the dune, coming up on five doe and two speckled fawns browsing the grass. Here and there I detected the smell of flowers I couldn't see. The milkweeds had long become pods, tho I swear it was that heliotrope-like smell—found indeed in L'Heure Bleue—that wafted like a whisper. I had thought of L'Heure Bleue as the ultimate indoor fragrance until just then, and I did think of that loved Guerlain standing in the dunes as the sun was sinking. No melancholy, just that ecstatic quiet that can never be willed, only happened on and recognized with a wistful gratitude.
Here's a photo of the Mentor Headlands beach from another year, on a similar "found" day, at an earlier hour, the magic being a rare balmy day in mid-October.
).
