The Bench on the Beach

The bench on the beach is a place to sit, to think, to be.

“It’s gone! My bench is gone!”

My long-suffering and beleaguered husband, used to my eruptions when something didn’t go my way, or at least the way I’d planned, looked up.

“What bench where?” he asked.

“My bench, you know, the one I mean — the one on the beach. There,” I pointed in the general direction.

“Oh, where you sit with the dogs on the lawn.”

“Yes, yes, you are so pedantic. The lawn, next to the beach, it’s all the beach!”

We’ve been coming to Westport Marina in Upstate New York for three years. An old wooden bench stood on the adjacent lawn in Ballard Park, close to the beach. I’ve spent many hours looking out over Lake Champlain, two dogs at my feet or one at my feet and one on my lap. I’ve watched boats come and go, watched the lake when the wind whipped up waves worthy of an ocean, and I’ve watched millpond water.

I’ve watched children play in the sand and adults doing some strange exercise called Tai-Chi on the low concrete slab where the dinghies tie up when the slab is not submerged.

I’ve seen dogs tear down the hill past my bench to splash wildly in the water, mouths wide open, joy personified while owners come tearing after them yelling.

And there have been times when there is no one. The beach would be mine. And I would think and allow my mind to travel into the past, many years back. I’d dig up old memories. Sometimes I’d smile, and sometimes I’d wipe away a tear.

The bench shared it all.

When I arrived this year, my bench was gone! In its place, a stately white Adirondack chair. Nice, but not the same.

We found my bench. It had been moved to back up against the small pavilion on the lawn where concerts are held on Thursday nights during summer. It had not weathered the winter well. When we tried to pick it up with its arms, the arms came away.

There’s a lovely story attached to this park and the tiny beach. The property belonged to Elizabeth Ballard, and when she passed away, she left it to her daughter, who, in turn, bequeathed it to the town on the condition it would remain a park for all to enjoy.

Personal photo from writer’s files

But back to my bench. I accepted the loss and tried out the Adirondack chair. Finding it quite comfortable, I re-established my afternoon ritual of one dog on my lap and another beside the chair.

Until there was no chair.

Someone had dragged it off the lawn and down onto the sand near the water’s edge.

I gave up and sat on the grass. But the grass was home to several creepy crawlies. No fun, not at all.

What was a woman to do? She asks for help; that’s what she does.

I Googled Ballard Park. Not only did they have a neat website, but there also was a way of contacting them, which I promptly did.

I wrote the whole story of finding the bench on our first visit. I shared how the bench became my confidante. I’d looked forward to the second year and sank onto the hard wooden slats with a groan of delight as it welcomed me back.

I froze in horror the third year when the bench was no more, to be replaced with an Adirondack chair. I eventually accepted the chair after I found my bench out to pasture behind the pavilion.

And then some selfish idjit nabbed the chair and dragged it down to the sand.

On and on I went. And then I asked, very nicely and humble-like, if there was maybe an old wooden bench in storage somewhere that could replace “my bench.”

I got the loveliest reply, thanking me for my email and saying that a bench will be placed under the big tree for me and what do you know?

The following morning, there it was!

I parked myself, wiggling into the corner for a hug. It was the twin to my bench, but there was one flaw.

The good people at Ballard had placed it under a huge tree. And said tree was home to more creepy-crawly and flying thingies that took great delight in descending on me and the pups.

Plus, the sun-lover me was now in full shade.

A quick note of explanation was dashed off to the kind people at Ballard, and, with my husband’s help, we relocated “my” bench into full sun, close to the sandy edge of the beach—pure bliss.

Back home, I have two chairs, aptly named my “Happy Chairs. My Morning Happy Chair is in the sunroom facing east. From here, I watch the sunrise over the rooftops while sipping coffee, Bible, and notebook close by. It’s an old wingback I’d covered in the nineties in the then-fashionable fabric called Chevron.

The Afternoon Happy Chair is in the lounge and has a kick-out footrest. It faces west. Squirrels come to drink from the fountain in the small courtyard outside the huge window; the odd fat black snake also pays a visit. It’s cream leather vintage, circa 1999, and shows its age. But every time my husband threatens to buy new furniture, I have only one stipulation — it must be exactly like this. For now, neither of my chairs is in danger of being replaced. Just sayin’.

I’ve talked to those chairs, confided in them, cried, and slept in the one with a kickout footrest after knee surgery.

And my bench here in Upstate New York? I’m old now and have long conversations with my bench. I tell it about my day, about what I’d planned to do that morning and never did. I tell it about my daughter, gone for twenty years, and how I miss her still. I laugh a little at my short-term memory as I recall a sibling I want to phone to ask something, only to remember he’s no longer with me.

Sometimes I play the “what-if” game. And that never ends well.

Mostly, my bench allows me to sit and just” be.” Which is super hard for me, but when you are overlooking the majestic Lake Champlain, somehow, just somehow, tension siphons away.

The lake is calm today, Champ, the legendary Lake Champlain monster, frolicking elsewhere.

I wiggle into the corner and close my eyes. The lake whispers –

You can just “be

In the far distance, the Canadian geese call to the stragglers of their flock as they leave a favorite spot for another. An incredible smell wafts my way on the breeze. Eau de Milkweed — lovely stuff. In Upstate New York, the milkweed grows tall with huge purple-like flowers. The smell is wonderful.

I run my fingers through the baby-soft curls of my teacup poodle, rooting around for pieces of grass and seeds. One of his greatest delights is foraging in the undergrowth. His whole little body would disappear, the tiny round button that serves as a tail wagging a mile a minute. If I don’t remove these, when he helps me make the bed, all his hard-earned tag-a-longs land up in my bed.

I open my eyes when a tiny tongue licking my hand says it’s enough! Across the lake, the mountains of Vermont are etched against a grey-blue sky. The French called Vermont Les Mont Verts.

The Green Mountains. But today they are blue. Or is it purple? Fat white clouds rest comfortably against a backdrop of another blue.

Peace, such peace

It’s time to head back to the boat. I wake the old dog asleep under my bench. He struggles to his feet. I love him dearly, and as we are approximately the same age, I can relate to his issues. The little one is asleep in my arms.

The day is gone. We’ll be back tomorrow.

I’ve watched strangers sitting on my bench. Always, but always, they look at peace. And I smile a little smile. I wish them well, thinking I played a small part in them having a place to sit and just “be.”

Sometimes, I stop and tell them the story of “My Bench.”

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubledeither let them be afraid (John 14:27, NKJV).