You'd be Upper Class, or Comfortable, as the Upper Class like to think of themselves. And I can't, I won't, have that. And not just because I can't afford it, not in the slightest. It's a principles thing.
The house itself was not the seedy, somewhat charming dive I expected it to be. It was rather done up and not altogether horrible. Which it had every right to be. As far as I'm concerned, these neglected, often empty houses have every expectation to be utterly run down and just this side of condemned.
After looking around the house we walked to the beach and enjoyed the sand and waves. The sand was soft and very, well, sandy. Not the mud and silt and sand affair you get in Vancouver, which, while biologically interesting and I'm sure greatly enhancing the first hunter gatherers diet in the region, makes for a pretty messy walk. But this Oregon sand that was powdery and soft and was sure to keep the kids entertained for hours while their weary parents sat back and got into some summer reading.
We have a sandbox at home, and they keep themselves remarkably content playing in the sand; but not in anyway that you might imagine. They don't make ordered castles or little pyramids or whatever. It's somewhat more chaotic, mostly they just sift it ,over and over like prospectors without the tattered overalls and mercury poisoning.
This is how we thought they'd take to the beach sand. However, Owl Jr., in seeing the beach, decided to go wandering, with me in tow, because at two and a bit, a kid just kinda wanders and isn't terribly worried about being lost. At least mine isn't. He's off and in his own personal quiet reverie about life and if his parents don't have the sharp-minded alertedness to keep a tab of him every 3 seconds, well, that's not exactly his problem. He doesn't make much noise, generally. Someday he'll make a great ninja or congressional archival librarian.
There was a lifeguard on duty, somewhere, anyways, the tracks of his truck or hilariously wide-stanced ATV traced across the beach. Owl Jr, in his infinite understanding how everything in the worlds relates to trains, decided these were train-tracks, and therefore must be followed. He had a grand old time following these tracks endlessly and I had a slightly less exciting time following him as he repeated "Thomas, thomas choo choo?".
It was relaxing, nevertheless, even if my job description for the day had been changed from 'stationary, reading concierge' to 'strolling butler'. The waves beckoned, those would offer some adventure, I'm sure. For another post.
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