Tuesday, July 7, 2009


It took me weeks to remember the name of the town where Liz and I were to spend our July 4th holiday; I had never been to Scituate, Massachusetts, or anywhere near Cape Cod. Liz, on the other hand, had spent some time in this part of the world when she lived in Boston and was familiar with the whole cape experience.

Before we moved, Sallyann had extended an invitation to her folks' place in the affluent seaside town. I was unaware upon accepting that their house lies a mere two blocks from a peaceful, private beach and only a few miles from the quaint business district—a boon to any vacation plans, especially those made amid an economic slump.

The weekend was truly relaxing. We hung out with old and new friends alike, talked, drank beer, ate way too much, played with the dogs, and took in the sun. Crowds gathered along the shore on Friday and Saturday night to catch the show of fireworks, which could be seen for miles—some sponsored by the towns along the cape, most fired illegally with zero reaction from local police. Open containers, also normally illegal, were overlooked as well—a welcome change in the legal system for this lady.

The trip provided us with a small escape from quotidian worries and a chance to reconnect with some Pittsburgh friends. Saturday was a flawless beach day with lots of swimming, sunning and reading. At low tide, the sand stretched for roughly ten yards but completely disappeared at high tide, when the water washed up the shore to meet the seawall.

The setting on my camera was all out of whack and completely blew everything out, but I did manage to catch a few acceptable photos despite the technical difficulties.

In the end, Fred got all of the attention and I managed to file Scituate away in my geographic lexicon.

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