Free Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield

the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.
    It is a day of memories, a day never to be forgotten.
    My three children are in the photo, and Dad is in the background, as are two of my sisters and their children, but everyone who gazes at the poorly developed photo is drawn inexplicably to Mom’s smile. In the photo, her face is raised up to the sky. To the sun or to our Creator, she alone knows. Her eyes are closed.
    I remember how warm it was that day and how she had squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with both hands.
    â€œAre my legs getting red?” she’d asked.
    My eyes brim with unshed tears as I remember the feel of her skin on the palm of my hand. Hot. The scalding tears run down my face. How I wish I could touch her one more time.
    â€œNo, Mom,” I replied. “But better put some sunscreen on before you get a burn.” Reluctantly, she’d sat up, the peaceful smile disappearing, and rolled her pant legs down, again.
    â€œSave it for the kids,” she said, her eyes scanning the group of children splashing in and out of the water. The whisper of a smile touched her lips as she watched for a long, wistful moment. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and moved toward the car where the coolers awaited.
    â€œMaybe we should get lunch going,” she said as she opened the first cooler.
    Now it is my turn to smile. Mom was not ready to relinquish dinner duties, after all. On a whim, I turn my face heavenward and close my eyes. I draw a deep breath and search for the special place Mom found that afternoon. It comes to me easily. Without pomp or ceremony, there she is, smiling again. Tears squeeze from beneath my closed lids, and I fervently pray that anyone who might come upon me at this moment will say my smile reminds them of Mom’s smile, that day on the beach so long ago. Tender, sweet, unassuming—and despite our loss it was peaceful.
    Helen Kay Polaski

My Shining Star
    Barbra Streisand once sang, “Memories, light the corners of my mind.” Many of my happiest memories—as a child, a teenager, an adult—revolve around time spent at the beach. I grew up in North Carolina, home to some of the most beautiful beaches on the Atlantic Ocean.
    I remember vividly the summer of 1969. My daughter, Tracey, was six weeks old, and we joined my parents and siblings at Moorehead City, NC. My daddy was horrified to see me “strutting” down the beach in a bikini, so soon after giving birth to his first grandchild! I often watch the old movies from that vacation—my favorite scene is the one of Daddy leaning up against the pier smoking his Salem cigarette. When I zoomed in on him, he looked right into the camera and, with a half-smile on his face, gave me that special wink—that only my daddy could give. He died four years later, at the incredibly young age of fifty-four. Years later Tracey put music to that old movie, and when Daddy appears on the screen, “Time in a Bottle” is playing. The tears rolling down my face feel like the tide rolling to the shore.
    From then on, my husband and I took Tracey and our son, Stan, to the Outer Banks in North Carolina every summer. My younger brother, Rick, and his wife, Barbara, would often join us, and he and I would spend countless hours on the beach reliving our happy childhood memories.
    I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1996, and after numerous surgeries, we decided to buy our own home in the Outer Banks.
    I work in a high-powered corporate environment and fight daily rush-hour traffic in the Washington, D.C., area, but when I cross the bridge into the Outer Banks, the stress rolling off my shoulders feels like the tide rolling out to sea.
    Our beach house quickly became the family gathering spot for special occasions. My mom, who just passed away at age eighty-eight, had many precious times there, surrounded by her five children and their families. If