Wasaga Beach Haunting

The beach lady was sad. All these years she had summered on this sandy shore. Packing the childrens' duffle bags and picking them up the second school ended on the last day of June. It had become part of their family's tradition. Once the car had reached the bay, they never returned to the city until the chill of early September evenings showed on her thermometer that clung by one wobbly, stripped screw on the weathered siding. In the back of her trunk she carefully wrapped two cans of exterior paint. Butter yellow and periwinkle blue. As the young, giggling beachers built sand castles, jumped whitecaps or made attempts to raise their kites to new heights, she methodically and therapeutically painted each horizontal board. There was contentment and happiness in this seasonal act. The children have grown and gone. Now as the wood peels away the years of happy colour, her memories get washed adrift by the waves and the sound of her children skipping in the shallow water gets blown up, up to the ridge of the Blue Mountains. All this precious family waterfront to make way for twenty-two townhouses. She didn't want one. Even with all the money she now had, she knew the 'new' would never replace the old. This is why she still visits the land. To hold onto the bliss. Is that an image of her own Grandmother caught in the breezy cotton curtain of her broken bedroom window? (click to enlarge the top photo - if you dare)