Kasey and Kenna
Mr. Thompson
Advanced Writing
17 March 2009

A Hot Summer Day on the Beach

Gold finches sit upon a willow treeís branch chirping a beautiful tune. I feel the warmth coming from the rising run gently touch my cheek as I lie in bed with my eyes sealed shut. The aroma of the freshly cut grass, blowing through the open window, fills the room. I hear my childrenís laughter from the other room, but my limp body refuses to move. The volume of the laughter increases causing me to awake. The shining light hits my eyes as they slowly open, displaying the light blue sky. No clouds visible, the wind slightly blowing, it feels like a beautiful day.

The door opens briskly by my youngest daughter Stacy. Her smiling face encourages me to start the day. I walk downstairs to the kitchen and the cold tile floor feels like ice, sending a chill to my bare feet. I sip on freshly brewed hazelnut coffee and begin to prepare eggs and bacon for my kids. My 12-year-old son, Tristan, walks to the kitchen yawning continuously. He smells the crisp bacon on the table and gathers his siblings while I place the new china on the weathered oak table. The eggs still sizzle in the grease. The vibration of my children running down the steps rattles the rickety cupboards and the floor shakes like an earthquake.  We sit down at the table and the steam rolling of the fresh food makes my kids extremely hungry.  After saying grace, my teenager Sara quickly snatches the dinner roll with strawberry glaze.  I patiently wait for my starving children to fill their plates and I take the leftover scraps.

As I watch them devour their food, I remember my early years living at home.  My mother slaved over breakfast and wanted my brother and me to receive a balanced meal.  She watched contently as we satisfied our hunger.  I still recall the sweet smell of homemade maple syrup and the vanilla scent originating from the flower centerpiece my mother picked from the garden.  On beautiful days like this, when the sky was clear, my mother usually took me to the beach.  The sound of crashing waves always washed away my worries.  A sudden tug on my shirt from Tristan awakens me from this pleasant memory.  I decide to forget about my daily chores of washing the dishes, doing the laundry, and vacuuming the house to spend the day at the beach.  My children and I pack our swimming suits before leaving our big, comfortable house.

Our arrival at the beach, welcomed by the fresh scent of ocean water, makes me feel at home.  The beach contains the same crashing waves, swaying palm trees, and glistening rocks.  My two youngest children sprint to the open water carrying their blue floaties around their tiny arms.  Sara, growing quickly, leaves my side to play with her high school friends.  Left all alone, I feel my tanless body craving the sunís rays to create more color like a painter with an empty canvas.  I then lay my vibrant beach towel with blue flowers on the rough but gentle sand and apply tanning oil.  As I relax, I watch my children play.  In the distance, I see fathers swimming with their young children and mothers cleaning the beady, wet sand off their babiesí legs.  To the far left, an unnoticed beach ball floats away from the shore into the open waters.  Boats across the beach pass by with scared but excited tubers holding on for dear life.  They fear the fall from the safety of the tube to the rough water.  The sound of the engine frightens the tubers even more and their heart begins to beat faster and faster.  Instead of a thrilling boat ride, some children sit near their parents building sand designs.

When I used to create sand castles, my mother joyful watched with admiration of my youth.  I held the castles together by gathering damp sand near the shore.  I carried buckets of water back and forth for some additional help.  The water was about 60 degrees and felt refreshing after being in the scorching, hot sun all day.  I was fascinated with the mushy feeling the wet sand produced between my toes.  Sadly, I also recall bruising my feet on pointy shells hidden in the sand.  I played vigorously in the sand and in the water which caused my throat to dry up like a desert.  Fortunately, my mother usually treated me to strawberry ice cream.  The cold tingle the ice cream gave my throat satisfied my parched mouth and distracted me from the beating sun on my forehead.

I now find myself watching my children enjoying the beach with the same admiration my mother once had for me.  I see Stacy and Tristanís attention suddenly turn toward a younger man walking his golden retriever along the shore.  The dog kicks up the wet sand sending it flying in the air.  My children happily run after the dog, eager to pet its soft, long fur.  The dogís swiftness causes their hair to blow in the air.  My children start to laugh when the dogís rough tongue licks their soft hands.  This humorous laughter causes the dog to bark loudly.  Behind them, fishermen cast their bait hoping to attract a large fish.  A boy on the boat watches his father with inspiring eyes to follow in his footsteps.  I hear Saraís voice in the distance while she plays volleyball.  Sweat slowly drips down her face and lands on the warm sand.  Nearby, the raging tides destroy kidsí glorious forts.  The waves continuously crash into the white glistening rocks sitting by the palm trees.  Suddenly the wind picks up triggering the branches to hit one another.  The sound of the crunch echoes while seagulls glide above the water.

Throughout the years, this beach resembles a secret passageway to past memories.  I enjoyed the time I spent in the fresh air playing with my mother.  I only hope the beach brings my children the same comfort.  The sun begins to set and the air cools.  I decide to leave this peaceful beach but will keep this new memory sacred in my soul.