Todd and I are in OCMD for the Maryland State Firefighter’s Association (MSFA) Convention for seven days – he is here for work and I am here on holiday. I packed two suitcases full of clothes and shoes because I am innately incapable of deciding what I will wear on Monday before I even arrive and really, who’s the nutcase that can actually do that?

I also packed enough underwear, as the meme goes, as if I plan to shit myself every day for a week. Fortunately shitting myself is not an issue – I’ve dodged that ancestral gene for now – but menopause is and with it, an abnormal amount of sweating that, especially at the beach and all the walking I do, requires a complete change of clothes (and a shower) at least once a day.

We arrived Friday evening in some wild thunderstorm, traveling by back country roads which was my idea when asked this way, or that way? and later regretted it as Todd sped down narrow flooded roads just outside Ocean City. It was a peaceful ride until then, and he doesn’t use the highest speed wipers and I don’t know how he could see because I couldn’t and I guess you could say I’m a very bad passenger. We are not traveling by Mustang this time (see above for my packing requirements) and not a single day or passing Mustang has elapsed without him wishing we were.

We’re staying at the Grand Hotel this time, booked by his work. We have the last room at the end of the hall on the 7^th floor, so our balcony is a corner with side views of the ocean and full view of the bay. Best of both worlds, yet beggars are not choosers because we have two double beds and ya’ll, Todd and I are not big people but we are used to sleeping in a king bed so the first night was challenging. I woke up with an arm in my face in the middle of the night and apparently I punched him at some point.

The Dunes Manor Hotel I came to love thirty-two years ago was sold last year to a well-known hotel chain, which has gray-washed the landmark pink exterior and turned it into another ugly monstrosity of “modern” blah. The entry way with the sweeping dual dark wood staircases have been adulterated into whitewashed steps and rails that meet ugly gray parquet flooring. The once beautiful Victorian lobby with luxurious seating and baby grand piano are long gone, replaced by senses-dulling beiges and grays. You’d say I am irrationally angry at what they’ve done, that I am not accepting of change, and you would be right.

Miss Shirley, the pianist who’s played professionally in Ocean City for 45 years and at the Dunes since 1990, was given the baby grand as a “parting gift” by the new owners. It’s a 700-lb we-wont-be-needing-your-services-fuck-you-very-much-please-take-it-away gift. I’m so glad we got to see her last summer before doomsday struck.

I have an entertaining view from my balcony; the direct view faces uptown, sandwiched between ocean and bay – at night, the lights twinkle and blink. We’re next door to the Days Inn where I can see people on their balconies across the way, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer and – two days ago – two young men on the roof taking selfies with their arms spread wide, just feet from the razor edge. Is this a thing? I mean, is this another TikTok challenge thing where kids pose in dangerously high places with outstretched arms?

I see people walking back from the beach, fireman in dress uniform carrying instruments, people hurrying through the lot with coffee and a paper bag, a Pittie desperately pulling on his leash to sniff under the bushes. I saw a bird disappear into a hole on the side of the hotel. I’ve been visited by two birds while I sat outside.

The boardwalk is non-smoking, yet there’s a near-constant smell of marijuana drifting across the boards, assaulting the senses like pollen from a tree. I saw a child asleep in a stroller, the remains of a red lollypop stuck to his shirt. I saw a white-bearded man wearing a Santa onesie and red crocs on a bicycle. I saw a man on a trike with bright yellow religious placards attached to its front and rear, whose voice would echo all the way to my balcony shouting Happy Father’s Day! Every day is Father’s Day for our lord and savior! His natural voice could fill The Majestic without mics.

Those who know me, know I am more than a casual observer of people. There is so much to see and learn from watching people: how they dress, speak, behave, interact with strangers. There is no better place to observe human nature than the shore.

I see the young people collected in the rear of the bus, boisterous and joking like we were 30 years ago. I see the young men with their scruffy facial hair and cowboy boots, and I think of my son and his friends back when they’d hang out in the basement shooting pool and making thousands of holes in the wall around the dartboard.

I see his face everywhere. I see these young men passing by, and I see something familiar in their expression, their stride. I shake my head to clear the illusion. My heart and soul are feeling him loud and clear this last weekend, enough that I worry about why. There are not nearly enough words to express how much I miss him.

Circling back, we are having the most beautiful beach weather – warm sunshine and breezes that soften the sun’s rays. It doesn’t get much better. I haven’t been to the beach this early in the season in a very long time. It’s usually much later and by then the humidity and the scorching sun make outdoors unbearable without shade.