It is summer in Ocean City. Biplanes pull banners advertising seafood buffets while below dolphins arc through the surf. The lettuce and peas are out of the ground and the tiny gardens fronting the summer houses are blooming hydrangeas, daylilies and lavender. It is June and summer is still cool and refreshing here.   

Karen and I have come here for years, before kids, during kids, after kids, with grandkids. I’m not in charge now. I didn’t even book the house for the thirteen of us. Jenna is expecting another daughter. But, she still kicks the soccer ball with us while carrying something the shape of a soccer ball under her blue and white summer striped shirt. 

 We take one fabulous vacation together every year and have adult conversations about life insurance and artificial intelligence although AI can’t explain why the grandchildren resist potty training and afternoon naps. Jenna and Andrew have selected a name for their daughter: Nora. I like that name. It reminds me of Nora Ephron, the writer. I suggest Nora Bea since they haven’t landed on a middle name, although I have little to say about this. 

Contrary to what Shakespeare said about roses, names are important. If the baseball Yankees were called the Liberty, it would be harder to hate them. Also, Limburger cheese must have been named after its smell. And my granddaughter’s dress, freckled with flowers, is brighter and bluer because of the forget-me-nots. So it is with our family going to the shore. We don’t say beach. We say down the shore or going to the shore. 

We bury children in the sand, although we always uncover them and bring them home. Seagulls steal slices of Mack and Manco pizza and Berenatos hoagies from our hands. This is also part of the lore of the shore. It does not come without hardship. I could visit here just for the food. Shriver’s fudge and taffy. Johnson’s popcorn. Kohr Brothers soft serve ice cream. All the places we love are small and old fashioned. Berenatos only takes cash. They have remarkable cheesesteaks and hoagies, a wooden barrel of dill pickles, all with unapologetically slow service. 

One evening, Andrew spots Marty Smith, the ESPN reporter. Andrew can’t help himself. “Hey, Marty!” Marty is walking a posse of small lap dogs. Marty nods and says, “Hey dude, what’s up?” Then he keeps walking. 

This place reminds me of my father not because it was his normal place but because it wasn’t. He only came here once. He walked into a boardwalk art studio and impulsively bought a thousand dollars worth of framed paintings by local artists. It was the only art he ever bought in his life. This was before he had sextuple-bypass heart surgery and found himself alive in the recovery room, where he sang every verse of Amazing Grace out loud. Then he sent out for $250 of Olive Garden take-out. It wasn’t for him. He gave it to the staff on the cardiac wing of St. Johns Hospital. 

On one visit to the shore, my wife and daughters parasailed, hovering over the ocean hundreds of yards out from shore. From above, you can see thousands of fish, some ominously large. After seeing that massive congregation of marine life beneath the waves, Karen doesn’t go into the deep water.   

We buy souvenir hats, sweatshirts with crossed oars and Ocean City across the front. This year, Karen bought one with an embroidered American flag on the front. She pulled it out and our entire family spontaneously broke into song, You’re a Grand Old Flag. Remarkably, we knew every word. 

We buy aromatic coffee and perfect blueberry scones from a bohemian coffee shop, the Barefoot Cafe. It is 7:02 a.m. We follow a local plumber inside after he unhooks the wooden sign that says closed, flips it over to the open side, then walks in and orders a cappuccino. We follow him and order lattes and scones from the owner who keeps a lovely flower garden and wears a head scarf straight out of 1967 Berkeley.  

Scones, sand, daughters in the sky, a granddaughter still on the way, my father’s paintings, and all of us singing old songs — these are the pieces we carry home, bright scraps of ordinary days, stitched together into a life