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Cool things happen on cold day at beach
(by Hertha Binder - March 24, 2010)
OF KIDS AND NATURE, BY HERTHA BINDER
Cool things happen on cold day at beach
One year when Chuck had spring break, no school, he came early in the morning. He was 12. By noon we were done shopping: groceries for us, for him a fancy yo-yo with special ball bearings. He was a real pro with it. He "let it sleep," "walked the dog" and "put the baby in the cradle." When I was a kid, I couldn't do those tricks, but then my yo-yo didn't have ball bearings either.
While we unloaded the groceries, I said, "I'd like to go to Headlands Beach."
"OK." Now that he got what he wanted, he went along with my plans. "But it's much too cold for the beach."
"We won't swim." I laughed. "Maybe take a walk."
"Can we wade and get wet?"
"The water will be too cold even for that, but let's take along shorts anyway."
Once at the beach, I changed in the car while Chuck ran ahead.
"I'll be right there beside those people." Close to the water's edge, where the sand is fine and soft, he was eagerly digging with his bare hands.
I sat on a piece of driftwood watching the lake. It was a sunny day, no haze, and the colors on the lake were amazing: four long streaks all the way from the area of Cleveland to the east as far as one could see. Close to our shore it was bright, a shimmering pale sky blue. Farther out, several miles away, there was a dark blue belt. Beyond it, another bright band followed by a second dark one. That appeared to be the northern shore.
"Chuck, doesn't it look like land over there?
"M-hm. Is it?"
"No. The Earth's too much curved to see all the way to Canada, but it sure gives the impression."
He took a quick glance. "Yeah. Grandma, help me make a hole."
I found a sturdy piece of driftwood and loosened the moist and packed sand so Chuck could easily scoop it out.
His eyes sparkled. "Look how deep it is!" He stepped into the hollow.
"Nearly 2 feet," I said. "What are you digging for?"
"Salt."
"Oh, really? You'd have to go down another 2,000 feet."
He gave me a surprised look, laughed and pushed the sand back in. "I didn't know it was so far." For a moment he looked disappointed. "What do you want to do now?"
"Go for a walk."
He wasn't too enthusiastic.
"You can skip stones," I suggested.
"I can do both, walk and skip."
While I still admired the layered appearance of the lake and marveled at the huge amount of driftwood on the shore, Chuck picked up little flat stones. Then he handed me a white, curved one. "Isn't that a funny rock, Grandma?"
"That's a piece of a broken bowl."
"Yeah, but it's so smooth."
"Must have been banged around in the surf for a long time. Try how it skips."
"Nah, that one won't." He was right. It just plopped in, but his little flat rocks bounced perfectly.
"Grandma, watch this! The last one jumped seven times."
"I didn't think stones would skip on waves."
"Sometimes they like hop up high, but they bounce OK." The next rock did it eight times. "Were you counting?"
"Yeah, eight. It's neat." I tried it too, with less spectacular results.
"Watch out, Grandma, don't step on that dead fish. It has a hole in its side."
I looked at the sand. "There's a dead fish every 2 feet. My gosh, hundreds, maybe thousands of them."
"How come there are so-o-o many ?"
"I'm not sure, but I once read that some fish in the lake don't belong here. They were introduced by man from warmer waters. In a severe winter it's too cold for them, they die, float under the ice, and when it thaws, the first big waves push them on land."
"All around the lake there are so many dead fish?"
"Guess only on one side. It must have been storms from over there," I pointed. "From the northwest, that washed them on our shore. A south wind would dump 'em all on Canada."
***
"So what did you do today?" asked Grandpa.
"We dug for salt but didn't reach it, and then we watched all the dead fish," explained Chuck.
Grandpa cut a face. "How uplifting."
"Oh, and I skipped stones real good, and Grandma watched the lake."
"You liked it?" my husband asked me.
I smiled. "In the sun it looked like a painting, a poem without words."
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