The Sand Between My Toes
Years ago, I would sometimes house-sit for a family that lived on a lake in the upper Midwest. It was a sprawling, well-appointed ranch style home with both a swimming pool and a small private beach. At some point they had someone haul sand in to make a small beach along their property's water front. Although most of the sand had been eroded off the beach by the time I stayed there.
I made some sketches of the sights one weekend when I was about to take a swim. That Summer day was perfect in temperature and breeze flow. Only certain parts of the shoreline still had enough sand to really sink my toes into. If I waded into the water, my feet would begin to sink in to the original mossy mud. I didn't mind.
Years ago, I would sometimes house-sit for a family that lived on a lake in the upper Midwest. It was a sprawling, well-appointed ranch style home with both a swimming pool and a small private beach. At some point they had someone haul sand in to make a small beach along their property's water front. Although most of the sand had been eroded off the beach by the time I stayed there.
I made some sketches of the sights one weekend when I was about to take a swim. That Summer day was perfect in temperature and breeze flow. Only certain parts of the shoreline still had enough sand to really sink my toes into. If I waded into the water, my feet would begin to sink in to the original mossy mud. I didn't mind.
And I loved that it was peaceful. I had the place to my self. An experience that I treasure as I remember the few small sail boats off in the distance outlined agains the backdrop of dense forested areas on the far shoreline across the way. The Sun and air currents across my skin; the gentle lapping of the water. And the sand (what there was of it) beneath my toes.
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