Water Colored Memories
By
Scott Munson
Their day at Watch Hill was wonderful. James Miller, his wife Cathy, and their daughter Hillary came over on a morning ferry. Six-year-old Hillary delighted in playing in the ocean's wave wash while her parents kept a watchful eye on her. The enormous sand castle they had constructed earlier was now in danger of being consumed by the incoming tide.
The young family retreated to their blanket which was spread on the sand to enjoy the lunch they packed and to watch the waves advance on their morning work.
"Ooh, look, Daddy," cooed Hillary. "The waves are going to wreck our castle."
James could see his daughter wasn't disappointed in the least. A wave hit the castle and a good portion of it crumbled away.
"Neat-o!" exclaimed Hillary. "Here comes another wave! Everybody
run for your lives!"
Deciding to join into Hillary's game of pretend, James asked, "Do you think there will be any survivors?"
Hillary looked at him quizzically. James could almost see the light bulb over her head. "Maybe" she replied. "Especially if they had boats."
"Or if a friendly giant came to their rescue," suggested Cathy.
"Cool idea, Mom," said Hillary as she scampered to what remained of the sand castle.
James and Cathy finished their lunch watching Hillary the friendly giant heroically save the "residents" of her beach sculpture. "Why don't we take a walk along the beach?" said Cathy. "Hillary would love to hunt for sea shells, occasional piece of beach glass.""
"Good idea," agreed James. "She'll enjoy that."
They secured their belongings, reapplied sunscreen, and walked west along the surf line gathering shells and piece of beach glass which were deposited into a small plastic pail Hillary was carrying. They soon reached the community of Ocean Ridge.
"We'd better turn around," said Cathy. "We must have come a half a mile."
'James didn't respond. At the moment he was intently looking at two
strange structures protruding from the sand. They were sat halfway between the high tide line and the stairway to the boardwalk. "Okay. We'll leave in just a minute," replied James. "But before we go, I want to take a closer at those."
The trio approached the structures. As they neared, James broke into
a smile. "Well, I'll be," he marveled. "Adirondack chairs. How clever."
Crudely, yet skillfully, built from discarded pilings and planking, two chairs were constructed of plank backings buried in the sand. Armrests sprouted at 45-degree angles from the backings and were nailed to weathered pilings sunk into the sand. There were no wooden seats for the chairs, beach sand were the seats. James placed a towel over the rough backing and sat in one of the chairs. "These are great," he said.
"They're so sturdy. He sure knew what he was doing when he built these."
"Let me try/' said Cathy. She sat in the other chair and scanned the horizon. "You could sit here by the hour," she said.
"And I'm sure he does," said James. "Who does?" asked Cathy.
"Milt;' replied James.
"Milt who?"
"Milt Bissell. I'm sure he's responsible for these. He's a local artist. I haven't seen him in over 25 years. His work is all over FireIsland. The mainland, too. That painting my folks have, the one of the squatters' shacks in the mist, Milt painted that one."
"Of course. I know that painting. Your folk love it."
"He had a little bungalow over there on the last walk. It was half house, half art gallery.I wonder if he's still there?"
Cathy glanced at Hillary. "I don't know how much longer she'll last," she said.
James pointed toward the dune. "See those stairs? They'll take us over the dune and Milt's walk would be right there. If he's still around,
I'd really like to say hello to him. Hillary? Would you like to see a real beach neighborhood?"
"Now?"
"Right now, sweetheart."
"Where is the neighborhood, Daddy?"
"Right over that dune. All we have to do is go up those stairs and we’ll be right there."
"Can I go first?", "Of course, you can," replied Cathy. "You can show us the way."
Hillary was completely sold on the idea. "Yippee! Let's go. But remember, I get to go first."
They climbed up the stairs and looked out over Ocean Ridge. "Look at all the houses," said Hillary. "Which way do we go, Daddy?"
"To the first walk you come to, sweetheart. You go ahead. Mommy and I will be right behind you." Hillary trotted off to Whalebone Walk.
Once there, she waited for her parents to catch up, then proceeded down the walk.
"If I remember correctly," said James. "It will be on our right. It will have a bunch of hand painted stones in front of it. There it is. Hold on, Hillary. Don't go any further."
They stood in front of a tidy, one-story house. Although there were no painted stones in the front, a sign by the door proclaimed the house as the Ridge Gallery. "This must be the place," said Cathy.
James was pleasantly surprised. "Come on, gang. Let's see if Milt is in."
They went to the door and knocked. "Come in," came a friendly voice.
They stepped inside and saw Milt dressed in beach attire. Swim trunks, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and a wide brimmed straw hat. "Good afternoon," said Milt. "I was just on my way to the beach."
"To sit in your Adirondack chairs?" asked James. "Oh. So, you've seen them. What do you think?"
"I knew who built them the moment I saw them." replied James.
Milt beamed at the compliment. "You'll have to forgive me," he said with a smile. "Do we know each other?''
"In the early seventies, you were part of a Fourth of July art show. You interested your work on my parents' front fence."
Milt appeared slightly stunned. "That was Sue and Paul Miller's house.
You can't possibly be little Jimmy."
James extended his hand and Milt shook it vigorously. "Yep, it's me.
This is my wife Cathy and our daughter Hillary."
Warm hand shakes were passed all around. A dozen different questions were asked. Some were answered and some were buried under an ever-increasing pile of new ones.
"Where are my manners?'' exclaimed Milt. "Please come in and sit down. Can I get you something to drink? I make a pretty good vodka and tonic."
"That sounds fine to me," said James.
"Just a little tonic for me, and some juice for Hillary if you have any," said Cathy.
Milt served the drinks. Cathy and Hillary perused Milt's collection of
original oil paintings and prints while the men went through the ritual of reacquainting themselves. All the traditional topics were discussed. Families, careers, and current events. Milt was particularly proud of the continued popularity of his earlier artwork that still sold well in a time when artistic tastes seem to change from year to year.
Refreshing the drinks, Milt explained. "I found out what sells best, and what sells best is a remembrance of Fire Island. When people buy my work, they're able to take a memory of this place with them. It's a fond memory. For them, Fire Island will never change. Not as long as they can remember it through one of my paintings."
The conversation came to a halt. James noticed the smile slowly fade from Milt's face. Milt slowly stirred his drink with a swizzlestick, watching a piece of lime twirl in the bottom of his glass.
James broke the silence. "You seem a little sad, Milt. Are you afraid Fire Island is going to change on you?"
Milt sighed and smiled wanly. "It already has. Actually, quite a while ago. I can't even sell my painted stones anymore."
"I noticed that on the way in," said James. "What happened? Local regulations?"
"Oh, Heaven's no. Nothing like that. You see, I used to work on the honor system. If you saw a stone you liked, you put a dollar in the coffee can and took the stone home with you. Well, one season I noticed the dollars in the can didn't equal the number of stones taken. The next season I came home from the beach and saw the can and the money it held had been stolen. It practically broke my heart. I stopped selling my stones right then and there. I wasn't disappointed in the monetary loss. Heck, I would have given them away if somebody asked.But since nobody asked and decided to steal instead..."
"I remember those stones," said James. "Flattened and smoothed by the surf and painted with catchy phrases from the sixties. Peace, Love, Groovy, and Flower Power. I still have one that simply says Fire Island. I use it as a paper weight on my desk."
Milt nodded in agreement. "My biggest sellers," he said. "What else has changed, Milt?" asked James.
Milt thought for a moment. "In the 50 plus years I've been here. I've witnessed a lot of change. Electricity was a big one. Once upon atime, everything over here was powered by kerosene or bottled gas. We even had propane powered refrigerators. Next came the phone lines. We all managed to live without telephones. Now, every house is connected."
James waited a moment before speaking and when he did, he chose his words carefully and spoke them sincerely. "Did youthink Fire Island was some sort of Brigadoon? To stay a backward, undeveloped speck of land in a world of modern technology?"
A lump formed in Milt's throat. He swallowed hard and took a sip of his drink. "Remember what I said about memories? How people want to remember what for them will never change?"
James nodded.
"That can only work if you never come back. Me? I've never left. The world does change in the blink of an eye, and phones and electric lighting coming to Fire Island really isn't that big of a deal. But by living in the same house for 50 years, I've seen plenty of the changes that really do matter. The ones that can keep you awake at night. For me, the most painful changes have been..." The words caught in Milt's throat.
James could see tears forming in the corner of Milt's eyes. Milt took a composing breath and continued. "I've been watching dear, dear friends pass away. Lovely people I shared countless dinners with, cocktail parties with, weekend card games, special times in my life I'll never have again. Those are the changes to Fire Island I've dreaded."
James' steady gaze showed Milt he understood. "How old do you think I am, James?
"Mid-sixties," lied James.
Milt smiled in appreciation of James' kindness. "I'll be 82 on my next birthday. When you get to be my age, you suddenly find out how difficult it is to have many friends the same age as you. You look in the mirror and the reflection is someone who is outliving all his friends."
The quiver in Milt's voice started to concern James. He wasn't very good at providing comfort to the emotionally upset. He hoped Milt wouldn't break down in front of him. He quickly finished his drink and set the glass down.
"Can I get you a refill?" asked Milt.
James felt it would be best to leave. "No thanks, Milt. We've got to be getting back to Watch Hill. We've got a ferry to catch."
Good-byes were exchanged with promises to meet up again. James was confident they would. Milt walked with them back to the stairs. Before they departed, he handed a painted stone to Hillary. It was light green and on it painted in white and bordered with red were the words Fire Island. Hillary was delighted with her prize.
"I thought you didn't do those anymore." said Cathy.
"I don't sell them anymore," replied Milt."But I always have a few lying around as gifts to give to new friends .Good-bye, James. Thanks for taking the time to look me up. It was a pleasure seeing you and your lovely family." Milt warmly shook hands with the Miller family, then returned to his house.
Walking back along the beach Cathy took James' hand and said, "Poor Milt. He sounded so sad. Do you think he'll be okay?"
James chuckled at her question and replied, "He'll be fine. He just got a little overly sentimental. Don't worry about Milt. Right now, he's probably deciding on whose cocktail party he'll attend first tonight."
"Daddy?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
"Mr. Bissell is lucky, isn't he?" "What do you mean?"
"I mean, like, he gets to live on the beach and go swimming in the ocean whenever he wants and sell paintings and all that neat stuff."
"I guess you could say Mr. Bissell is lucky," agreed James. "Are you ever going to be lucky, Daddy?"
James winked at Cathy. He kissed her hand and scooped up Hillary with his free arm. James hugged his daughter and she hugged him back. "I already am, sweetheart. I already am."
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