By Amy Martin 
When I was in college, my parents rented a house for a week each year in a little place called Seaside Beach, right outside of Sandestin, FL. It was a quintessential beach town with privately owned shops selling things like handmade soaps, vintage books, and eclectic jewelry. Their market was like a mini–Fresh Market and smelled of flowers, fresh coffee, and blueberry muffins.
Everything you needed was within walking or biking distance, including the beach. Each year, my dad would loudly proclaim how his first check was “going to the cabana man!” This insured we had an umbrella and chairs for the week, which, according to him, was the secret to a successful trip. Sometimes I took a friend, more often I didn’t. I enjoyed the lounging, shopping, and reading that being alone with my parents allowed me.
My mom perfected charcuterie boards and happy hour drinks long before they were on trend. One particular house had a rooftop space that let you see clear to the ocean. Momma and I would carefully carry a tray of goodies and gin and tonics up the stairs where we’d listen to the waves and watch as early evening storms rolled in. Freshly napped and showered, the cold drinks and salty air were always perfection.
When it rained, I’d spend hours on the screened-in porch reading and daydreaming. I’ve always been a dreamer, creating elaborate, storybook scenarios in my head. One day, I was a famous writer featured on Oprah. Some days, I was whisked away by a charming, handsome stranger. Others, I found myself in France, bicycling across the countryside. The irony, of course, is that at that point in my life, it was all plausible.
It never occurred to me how fast it would all go when my whole life was ahead of me. I couldn’t have imagined that in just 10 short years, my mom would be gone, along with the lazy days of well-spent summers. That there would come a time when it was the last walk up sand-covered stairs, the last sunset with a cold gin and tonic, the last check to the cabana man. I wouldn’t have wanted to have known.
We take for granted the perfect summers of our youth. The simplicity of long days at the beach and steaks on a charcoal grill with our parents. We forget what it’s like to be relatively unjaded by the world and our not yet experiences; to still have everyone we love and be in the cocoon of our childhood. At this point, I hope my own child looks back someday and remembers our version of summers with the same nostalgia I do.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Emily Waletich 
by Melissa Fenton 
