summers. The next year, when I was seven—while Ellie and Celeste would do fashion shows on the sand, play badminton together and hog the DVD player watching movies starring teenage guys they pretended to drool over more than I imagined they really did—I’d beg my dad or Uncle Ian to take me out in the canoe or plead with Mom or Aunt Sandra to watch me swim. Sometimes all us kids (except my brother, Garrett, who was too young) would play a four-person version of baseball or, on a rainy day, have a game of hide-and-seek in the cottage, but I would’ve spent the better part of that second holiday struggling to keep myself busy or hanging out with the adults, if not for the change in Callum.
On the fifth day of that first week I was making a humungous sand pizza on the beach at the foot of the cottage’s property. When my dad noticed me struggling to form a perfect circle he’d suggested using the top of a trash can as a mold, which I did, and I was in the process of adding bits of plastic foods (sliced mushrooms, tomatoes and olives) from one of Garrett’s play sets when Callum walked down to the sand to see what I was doing.
“I wish we could have real pizza,” he declared, looking down at my sand one. “At home we order pizza from Domino’s all the time.” The way he said that doesn’t look anything like you’d read it on a page—his sentences, like Ellie’s and my uncle Ian’ se Ihe said ts, were filled with hills and valleys. Their words danced.
That year my mom and aunt happened to be on a joint health-food kick and were determined that we all avoid junk food for the duration of the trip, so I knew how my cousin felt. Back then I believed most green vegetables were inedible and was tired of avoiding all the lettuce, bok choy and peas appearing on my plate at the end of the day. “I wish we could have chocolate,” I told him. “Or Cheetos.”
“What are Cheetos?” my three-quarters Scottish cousin Callum wanted to know, his green eyes focusing on mine.
“They’re sort of like chips, but cheesy,” I explained. “When you eat them all the orange stuff comes off on your hands but they’re really, really yummy.”
“I wish we could have those too then,” Callum said.
It’s funny, I remember how the sand smelled while we were hanging out at the beach at that moment—and how I had the taste of Cheetos in my mouth from thinking about them. And I remember wondering if Callum would walk away soon, like he usually did, and whether he would stay longer if I was boy, especially a boy older than seven.
“Do you want to play war?” Callum asked me. I temporarily forgot what war was. “I brought cards with me,” he added.
“Okay,” I told him. I could feel bits of sand between my teeth as I smiled. I always managed to get sand everywhere.
“I’ll get them!” he said, smiling back at me. He raced towards the cottage and brought the cards down to the beach with him. We sat on the sand beside my pizza and played war and then quadruple war for hours. The tide came in, the sun hung low on the horizon and Celeste was dispatched with the message that if we wanted to stay outside we’d need to come into the cottage for a minute so our mothers could douse us in mosquito repellent.
“Why don’t you bring us the spray?” I asked my sister in a pleading voice.
“Because Mom says you need to come in,” she repeated. “You know you always have to put on long sleeves and pants if you want to stay out when it’s getting dark.”
I stared at my father and Uncle Ian in the distance. They were hanging out on the deck, listening to a baseball game on my father’s hand-crank radio while they watched over us. I couldn’t hear the game from my spot on the beach but they often listened to games in the evenings, and as I gazed over at them and then back at my sister and Callum, I was conscious, with every fiber of my being, that I didn’t want the moment to end. I’d forgotten how strongly a
On the fifth day of that first week I was making a humungous sand pizza on the beach at the foot of the cottage’s property. When my dad noticed me struggling to form a perfect circle he’d suggested using the top of a trash can as a mold, which I did, and I was in the process of adding bits of plastic foods (sliced mushrooms, tomatoes and olives) from one of Garrett’s play sets when Callum walked down to the sand to see what I was doing.
“I wish we could have real pizza,” he declared, looking down at my sand one. “At home we order pizza from Domino’s all the time.” The way he said that doesn’t look anything like you’d read it on a page—his sentences, like Ellie’s and my uncle Ian’ se Ihe said ts, were filled with hills and valleys. Their words danced.
That year my mom and aunt happened to be on a joint health-food kick and were determined that we all avoid junk food for the duration of the trip, so I knew how my cousin felt. Back then I believed most green vegetables were inedible and was tired of avoiding all the lettuce, bok choy and peas appearing on my plate at the end of the day. “I wish we could have chocolate,” I told him. “Or Cheetos.”
“What are Cheetos?” my three-quarters Scottish cousin Callum wanted to know, his green eyes focusing on mine.
“They’re sort of like chips, but cheesy,” I explained. “When you eat them all the orange stuff comes off on your hands but they’re really, really yummy.”
“I wish we could have those too then,” Callum said.
It’s funny, I remember how the sand smelled while we were hanging out at the beach at that moment—and how I had the taste of Cheetos in my mouth from thinking about them. And I remember wondering if Callum would walk away soon, like he usually did, and whether he would stay longer if I was boy, especially a boy older than seven.
“Do you want to play war?” Callum asked me. I temporarily forgot what war was. “I brought cards with me,” he added.
“Okay,” I told him. I could feel bits of sand between my teeth as I smiled. I always managed to get sand everywhere.
“I’ll get them!” he said, smiling back at me. He raced towards the cottage and brought the cards down to the beach with him. We sat on the sand beside my pizza and played war and then quadruple war for hours. The tide came in, the sun hung low on the horizon and Celeste was dispatched with the message that if we wanted to stay outside we’d need to come into the cottage for a minute so our mothers could douse us in mosquito repellent.
“Why don’t you bring us the spray?” I asked my sister in a pleading voice.
“Because Mom says you need to come in,” she repeated. “You know you always have to put on long sleeves and pants if you want to stay out when it’s getting dark.”
I stared at my father and Uncle Ian in the distance. They were hanging out on the deck, listening to a baseball game on my father’s hand-crank radio while they watched over us. I couldn’t hear the game from my spot on the beach but they often listened to games in the evenings, and as I gazed over at them and then back at my sister and Callum, I was conscious, with every fiber of my being, that I didn’t want the moment to end. I’d forgotten how strongly a
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