A visit

The patches of ice over that mud crunched beneath my feet as I walked the edge of the water. The mud was firmed up some from the bitter cold. A steady breeze blew off the bay. I know those long clams are beneath that mud, I need only rake them up. Walking slowly along I look for the tell tale holes in the mud. Bubbles will come up through those tiny openings. A sure sign of a clam. Taking that short handled rake with its' four long tines and sinking it deep just a little forward of the hole. Pulling back that mud and raising up at the same time. I can feel it in my back but the lure of clams is strong. Soon there in that pile of cold thick muck I see my prize. I fumble to pick it up with those thick gloves on. Even though the gloves are moisture proof and insulated, my fingers are stiff with the cold. Got one, now moving along to find the others.
Years ago, in what seems like a foreign place now, I dug for those clams. It is part and parcel of my heritage. I come from a long line of clam diggers. My ancestors did it for a living, but I did it for fun. If you can call freezing your butt off and having fingers and toes near frostbitten fun. But it was fun. It was cold and lonely out there on that beach. The gulls screeched their discontent and the waves lapped at your feet, but it was beautiful too. Comforting in its' solitude. Gave a man time to think and appreciate things. And the promise of eating those delicious clams was a joy to look forward too. Those city folks might think filet mignon prepared by some fancy chef was good, but that is only because they never had fresh clams like these. Those clams gave you a real appreciation for what mother earth could provide. Steamed up and dipped in fresh melted butter there is nothing finer. And drinking that juice left from steaming warms you good on a cold winter day. In the local jargon, " some fittin' Bub, some fittin' ".
Going clamming in the dead of winter on that lonely beach is just one of the memories of my youth. Unaware of the time and place I was grown to, I just went along as though it would always be so. Time is a cruel master and demands much of us. Time takes our youth and leaves us only memories, if we are among the lucky ones. Now I am content to just remember. That time is gone and that place only exists in my mind. It is that way for us all and to pretend otherwise is folly. One can not live in the past, but you can visit. I do it often. There are times when I miss the loneliness of the beach. I miss that communal time with nature. My connection to the past and to the future. The water still reaches the shoreline, that is eternal, it is just the shoreline that changes.