The pine cone wars at the beach echo in my mind. The horseshoe crab stash in the gap on the rock ledge is long found out now. The jetties uncovered at low tide made for a fine promenade. Do you remember playing scrabble and mancala in between long walks amongst the shells and seaweed, watching big fish being reeled in on those persistent rods and watching the waves from the perfect height swings? Mostly, I cherish just the moments with you. I weep for summer.
Cape Cod is in Massachusetts and juts out into the water like a clam digger’s arm when he is pausing to flex his muscle for the mussels. (Couldn’t resist.) The upper Cape is at the bottom but is “upper” because that is the upper arm; and the lower Cape is up top as it is the arm below the elbow when you aren’t flexing your arm muscle. The inner Cape has bay side beaches where the water gets warm in the summer; the outer Cape’s beaches have the wavy cold waters.
Cape Cod encompasses 604 square miles and “…incorporates all of Barnstable County, which comprises 15 towns: Bourne, Sandwich, Falmouth, Mashpee, Barnstable, Yarmouth, Harwich, Dennis, Brewster, Chatham, Orleans, Eastham, Wellfleet, Truro, and Provincetown. Each of these towns include a number of villages…”—according to Wikipedia
One of the more curious things about Cape Cod is the loads and loads of New Yorkers who bypass their own coast and drive to the heavily trafficked Route 6 to get to Cape Cod. Maybe the Cape has a bit of that Tom Sawyer persona with its many white picket fences, and Tom would flex his arm muscle for the tourists, I bet.
“The imagination is a muscle. If it is not exercised, it atrophies.” —Neil Gaiman