Mrs. LePage- Lobster Dinners

I was famished. The kind of hungry that only comes from swimming in the ocean and building sandcastles all day long. I struggled up the beach, that one stubborn corner of my towel making a snake trail behind me. The white plastic handle of my bright blue pail flexed with the weight of my treasures: perfect shells, special stones, maybe even a feather. My mom would help me spread my damp towel over the back seat of the car. Windows rolled down, the wind snarled my frizzy curls as we drove to the tiny, gray shack. The wheels crunched over the seashell parking lot, and we parked with the other cars that were always coming and going. I waited in the car with Dad while Mom went in. Soon she came out holding what looked like a soup can for giants. 

A few minutes more driving, and we pulled up to my grandparents’ tiny trailer. As I tumbled out of the car, Grammie and Grampa bustled out with warm hugs for all. They helped me spread my towel out on the picnic table bench so I wouldn’t get splinters. The camp stove hissed as Grampa lit it, and the huge can clanked onto the grate. I swung my sand-caked flip-flops and traced the ugly, bright flowers on the plastic tablecloth. 

“Is it ready yet?”

Sometimes, in order to distract me, we’d play games. My grandfather’s patient hands remade the fan of slippery cards each turn. Once in a while he’d put one in the front and tap it. When I looked at him, I’d get a tiny wink. 

“Grammie, do you have any 7’s?”

“How did you know?”

Every 100 hours or so, my dad or Grampa checked the can. Finally, finally, finally he would say, “I think it’s ready.”

Paper plates and mountains of napkins, bowls of broth and melted butter, nutcrackers, salt & pepper all appeared on the table. Out they’d scoop piles of steamers, potatoes, corn on the cob and those bright red, fabulous lobsters. I wrestled with that slippery nutcracker and had butter smears on my chin. The conversation settled down to “Here, try this”,  “Let me help you with that shell” and “Mmmm’s.”  And we feasted. We feasted on lobsters and steamers and togetherness and family stories and helping each other and love.

There’s nothing wrong with white tablecloth, suit and tie lobster dinner. But, for me, it will never be as wonderful as the damp bathing suit, sandy feet kind.