Last night at the beach

It is, it is, and for me that is always a melancholy time. I'm not at all happy to be going back to the real world. I could stay here a very long time, or so I think while I'm here--but that's in part because here I don't have a job, I don't worry about calories, and my responsibilities are few. I just have to fund it, which I do by saving each month.

The reasons don't matter a lot, though; the place is magic.

We sat on the exterior balcony tonight and watched the moon slowly rise above the clouds that blanketed the horizon. The moon isn't full, but it's close enough that you can believe it is if you want to, as I did tonight. The waves, still visible in the oncoming night, pounded against the shore, and in the distance rain was falling on the ocean.

This house and this beach drip with personal history. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the death of one of the best men I've ever known, my stepfather, Edmund D. Livingston, Jr. He died in this very beach house quite a few years ago; I'm embarrassed that I don't remember how many. My kids have played here for most of their lives. We were the last house on the island for many years, and now the row of houses stretches away from us. I've shared a great many wonderful memories with friends and family and extended family here. I hope I get to do so for many, many, many two-week stretches to come.

I love this place.