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We were trapped in the house all weekend, hostage to a wicked northeastern fury. Yesterday, at the height of the storm, I could hear the cedar shakes on the side of the house fluttering like wooden butterfly wings. I had to check the rickety windows often as the thin, not so white anymore, lace curtains stood out straight at times -- I was afraid I had left the window open just a bit. Gusts of wind lunged heavily against the outside wall, followed by a clattery bombardment from the heavy rain, as though the gods of nature were sparring partners taking intermittent swings and hits on the sides of our aging house.
Galvanized steel trashcans, spun by the wind, danced along the street like Renaissance, armored warriors jousting for the pleasure of the festive crowds.
All of those familiar sounds were being repeated one more time. My heart still quickened, I would still get a cold shiver that started deep inside, and finally would emerge, running down the hairs on my arm. It was like I absorbed the storm by osmosis, and then slowly let it out through the pores of my skin.
The next morning it was calmer, and I anxiously walk the three blocks down to the ocean to see what havoc the storm has left in its wake.
On the way, there’s an old maple tree that had succumbed to the ravaging wind in front of Kelly's house. A large part of it lies buried in their porch roof. The trunk is split wide open, and the sharp fresh wooden barbs reach for the sky in surrender. Porch furniture, kid's toys, and trash are thrown around without concern for any meaningful pattern.
The predominant sound is the crashing of waves blocks away. These large mountains of water with frothy white crest, come rampaging in after the storm, like foot soldiers mopping up nature's onslaught. Approaching the beach, the sounds become louder. First, the crash of a descending mountain of water smashing against it self, and then a rumbling, uneven sound as the unleashed wave slowly rolls over the top of the retreating waves. I can close my eyes -- and listen for the time it takes for that rumpling sound to roll along -- and along -- and then stop -- ending in a slight fizzle, like you just opened a carbonated drink. You can in your mind's eye visualize how far out the waves are when they start breaking.
Descending the splintered, wooden stairs to the still moist, sandy beach, my nostrils are alive with the briny scent of the sea. The edge of the water is frothing like a rabid animal, just another visible sign of nature's outburst. The Sea Gulls suspended in space, almost motionless, as the still active air allows them to float along looking over the harvest of marine life, sacrificed to the storm. They are particularly vocal with their guttural screams as they view the opportunity for a feast.
I suddenly remembered, that I brought nothing with me to retrieve the many sea clams usually strewn about the beach after a storm. I remembered on one occasion my brother and I had gathered so many clams into our burlap bag, that it became too heavy to carry home. We had to go get Dad to help us retrieve our bounty. The aroma of Mom's piping hot clam chowder made it all worthwhile the following day.
The beach is cluttered with the debris torn from the depths of the ocean. Large piles of green-brown kelp remind me that the ocean is also the home of some exotic vegetation. Barnacle covered, black mussels sewn together like sea grapes are being ravaged by the Sea Gulls. The mighty sea has regurgitated onto the beach all the trashy remnants of careless boat owners, and ocean liners, like he was saying, "Not in my house." It’s an incredible spectacle that continues to heighten my love affair, and fear of the ocean.
Heading north along the beach I can see Mr. Strotsky, who is relishing the opportunity to harvest the sea clams that he has sold door to door for years. He’s a Russian emigrant.
My first vivid memories of him were when I was only a small boy. He would go door to door shouting out, "Clams, nice fresh clams for sale." He would be pulling a large red wagon with a long black handle. I had a red wagon just like it, except mine was much smaller. The rusted bed of his wagon was always filled with recycled glass mason jars, filled to the brim with sea clams. You could hear the squeaking wheels from a block away, because the salt water had corroded the axles so badly. If you failed to hear him coming with all of that commotion, he would ring your doorbell.
Filled with curiosity, I would gawk around my mother, standing in the doorway. Mr. Strotsky was utter fascination to me when I was a young boy. He had an unusually full beard, that was curly and inches long. There were some foul knots around his mouth that I always imagined were left over from his morning breakfast. His bushy, multi-colored eyebrows hovered over his sparkling dark brown eyes. His teeth were asymmetric and not very white, but his smile was radiant just like you thought Santa Claus’s would be. His royal blue stocking hat looked like a home knit that was starting to come un-done -- there were blue treads dancing down the side of his face that had become enmeshed into his curly beard. . He wore those lime green, rubber knee high boots all year long. They made a funny swishing sound when he came up the steps. He was weathered and worn and a testimony to another culture.
When he spoke, it was like chanting with an accent. "Mrs. Mac -- Donal woul-d you like some fresh clams today, Mrs.?"
"How fresh are they Mr. Strotsky?"
"I chocked them dis morning Mrs., you know I only have fresh," he would always say with a twinkle in his eyes.
My mother would examine half of the jars in his wagon, fussily tipping the jars upside down so that she could make sure there was nothing strange on the bottom, before she would select just the right ones. She would give him a dollar, and I would hear him squeaking off again toward the house next door.
"Clams, nice fresh clams for sale."
Mr. Strotsky was obviously enjoying this day after the storm. He already had one large burlap sack full of clams, and he was laboring to fill the other.
"Hi little Mac why aren't you gathering some clams for your self?"
"I forgot to bring a bag."
"Here's a small one of dem you can borrow, if you want?"
He’s not a large man, but he has big burly hands and a husky head with pronounced features. If I didn't know him already, and how friendly he is, I probably would have steered clear of him. He is smoking a pipe, and the aromatic tobacco introduces a pleasant scent overriding some of the decaying debris on the beach. His presence is actually reassuring in the face of the sea's upheaval.
"I'll take a small bag Mr. Strotsky, then I won't have to go home empty handed. My mother will thrash me when she sees what the salt water has done to my shoes. They usually turn salty white, and curl up twisted like. Maybe some fresh clams will calm her down."
"Don't take any, if the shells are open, Little Mac."
"Yes Sir, I know, Thank You."
It didn't take long to fill the bag, and I hoped it wouldn't be too heavy. I still have to walk three blocks home.
Walking home I can hear the roar of the waves still crashing behind me. The triumphant sea gulls are singing a grateful aria that can be heard from a distance. I thought of Mr. Strotsky, who is having an uncommonly fine day. The sun was now breaking through the clouds, and everything seemed to be sanguine again. The aroma from the bag of clams over my shoulder was titillating my nostrils. Guess it was going to be a nice day after all.
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