THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 17, 1995 TAG: 9509140151
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 50 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Guest Columnist
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 80 lines
We went, 11 strong, to the Outer Banks for our annual get-together last week. For eight years now that has been the time and the place where our family celebrates birthdays, anniversaries and other milestones, talks of the past and shares dreams of the future.
This year four generations of the family were on hand, along with several house guests.
And then there was Alex. Ten months old with black hair and sparkling eyes, he burst forth from his parents' room each morning on all fours - with the joy and enthusiasm that comes from knowing there's no hurt that Dad can't protect you from, Mom can't kiss away.
For five days he was tossed into the air by his uncles, cuddled by a duet of great-grandmoms, played with by the houseguests, carried everywhere by his granddad and observed in awe by this grandmom who wondered where the years had gone since she last held a baby of her own - Alex's father.
So often during that week a phrase from an old greeting card - ``the wonder of a small child at Christmas'' - went through my mind. I recall the picture that went with the words, that of a tot looking up in amazement at the glistening star atop a Christmas tree.
But Alex didn't need a Christmas tree. His wonder knew no bounds as he explored both the familiar and the fresh.
A squirrel running across the deck railing brought squeals of delight. A toad sitting oh-so-still in the driveway, then hopping off to safer environs brought first a puzzled look, then the urge to follow.
The roar of the ocean brought awe, as well it should, and the scurrying of the little birds who spend their days darting into the surf, then running back ahead of the next breaker, brought grins of recognition from the little human who understands those who never stand still.
Grains of sand were for examining; salt water for tasting and sea shells for picking up.
Inside the cottage his eyes and hands jumped from one shiny object to another - the metal marker in the book I never did get around to reading, his granddad's watch left briefly on the coffee table, a pen near the telephone.
``Just like a little crow,'' my mother laughed. Her words startled me. It had been years since I had heard the expression. My grandfather, dead nearly 50 years now, used them often.
``Just like a crow,'' he'd say, shaking his head, as a toddling offspring would dart to the shiniest object in the room. ``Crow's going to get that,'' he teased me one morning as I fixed a shiny silver barrette in my hair.
He was, as usual, right. On my way to school a large black bird came out of nowhere and tugged at my hair decoration. I'll have to tell Alex about that some day. Generations of wisdom. Generations of family stories. All to be passed on and added to as time goes by.
Our annual trips to the Outer Banks are part of that. ``We were evacuated one year,'' we'll tell Alex when he's old enough to understand hurricanes, ``that was before you were born.''
We'll tell him of the days when Corolla had more horses than houses, and the afternoon we watched whales playing just off the beach.
We'll tell him about the rainy night his uncles made an extra 40-mile round-trip because the restaurant got the order garbled and put anchovies and pineapple on the same pizza. We'll tell him about the rainy day when the Monopoly game lasted for 14 hours and spawned at least as many verbal battles.
And we'll tell him about the day, last week, when I slipped off to introduce him to one of the greatest wonders of the world - soap bubbles. His eyes got heavy, then finally closed as he sat nestled in my arms in the porch swing, watching as dozens of rainbow covered globes floated above.
One of the last landed in the softness of hair, so very like his father's, and stayed there for a long minute.
Had it really been more than 30 years since I last rocked a dark-haired baby to sleep?
How lucky Alex is that in this family of storytellers there will always be someone to tell them. MEMO: Jo-Ann Clegg writes for The Beacon, the community newspaper that serves
Virginia Beach, Va.
by CNB