Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online

us in our family. I was not happy in the high school I attended nor in the neighborhood where I lived. And at that time in my life, I was not happy with myself most of all. I was shy and unsure. I did not like my body or my face.
    Until I reached the beach, that is. Every summer, with what little money we had, we would rent a room at the shore. In that room would be my brother and I, Mother, and Father. There was always one of us on a cot somewhere in a corner. But it was worth it all—sharing bathrooms with people we never knew before, listening to intimate conversations through the walls, and trying to get along in a community kitchen.
    None of that mattered when I reached the beach. This particular summer, I had bought a one-piece leopard bathing suit. It seemed to feel comfortable on my body the moment I tried it on. It gave me curves I never knew I owned. I had long blonde hair at the time and wore on one arm a gold bracelet that clung not to my wrist, but halfway up my arm. The effect was dramatic.
    Nowhere else could I be this daring but on the beach. In my mind, I dropped the personality that proved disappointing in the winter and acquired one that surprised even me. She arrived on the scene each summer as a mystery to everyone around her. She was brave and daring and coy and seductive. The gold bracelet announced all of this, along with the leopard bathing suit.
    There were many boys who admired what was in the suit. Of course they did not know a shy girl also lived there. Every moment was cherished on the beach. The blankets spread out around us—the radios propped up, the posing and primping and sunbathing with a generous collection of young men arriving and leaving the blankets. We lived our fantasy, at fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old, having left our real lives behind. Only on the beach could we become anything we dared. The moment we stepped on the sand, we were transformed for the summer.
    There were romantic meetings beneath the boardwalk, promises made and broken, beach parties beneath the stars, with long walks and long talks. We always sat in the same place, as if a spot of beach were reserved for us. And sometimes, even in the rain, we would be there, covered by our blankets. On the last weekend of summer, we would cry as if our hearts were broken. They were. For all of us knew that we would have to return to the realness of our lives and wait patiently until next summer.
    Only a few days ago, some fifty-five summers later, a man surprised me with a visit. We had not seen each other for many years. We talked of past summers, of our shared memories of the beach and then he said, “I’ll never forget that leopard bathing suit and that gold bracelet on your arm.” And then he laughed. “You wouldn’t have that bathing suit around, would you?”
    I did not tell him, but of course I did. It was invisible to his eyes and others, but I was wearing the leopard bathing suit as always. Every summer.
    Harriet May Savitz

“You get to a certain age, and, last year’s swimsuit is good enough!”
    Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2005 Stephanie Piro.

My Father’s Oldsmobile
    T hose who say you can’t take it with you never saw a car packed for a vacation trip.
    Unknown
    Every hot summer Sunday of my childhood we headed for the beach in Dad’s Oldsmobile.
    Mom would start cooking the “picnic” at 5 AM. She would make fried chicken, corn beef sliced in thick slabs, several pounds of homemade potato salad, fresh tomatoes sweet and ripe from our neighbor’s garden, and peaches and plums lovingly chosen one at a time by Auntie Bella, along with Devil Dogs and Snickers “for extra energy,” Mom said. A dozen hard-boiled eggs just in case. Everything got tenderly packed into two round, metal Scotch-plaid coolers, the latest thing.
    Dad backed the Olds up to the back porch door, its chrome hood ornament, wide whitewalls, and soft