And perhaps that is the charm of the Shoreline. It is a modern place with an ancient (for America) past and a very active, almost zealous historical society (my grandmother called them the Hysterical Society.) Modernity and history. I’d like to think I could blend my modern day with my history. That’s why I still miss the Shoreline, and myself, sometimes.
At eighteen, I became a sailor. A lot of things could have been different. They could have stationed me far from home. I could have fallen for the girl from Sandusky. Or I might have worked out a way to pay my bill and return to school in time to graduate and never have gone in the service. Preferably that.
My perspective on the split was typical for a three-year-old. I got a new bedroom and got to spend more time and Grammie’s house, where there was a big backyard and lots of cooking going on every day. I saw my father often and didn’t miss much about home, except my cat.
She spread herself across my lap, put her hand behind my neck, and looked directly in my eyes as she spoke. She kissed me and told me about her plans and about how I scared her. I was too intense, too serious.
So there were lawyers and sheriffs. There were arguments and waiting. I learned about thunderheads. Then there was a compromise. We gave him birthday gifts in the driveway. And we took him to Sea World. I got a killer whale made of wax from a vending machine.
