Tag Archives: beach

The Susiephone

This is a story I’ve entered in the Florida Weekly 2025 Writing Contest, based on the first picture below, supplied by the newspaper.

“Where’s the parade, young feller?” the old man asked.

“No parade,” the young man replied, stopping for a moment.  “I’m on my way to my music lesson.”

“On the beach?” the old man chuckled, eyeing the younger man quizzically from under the bill of his cap.

“Just takin’ a shortcut to my teacher’s place.  He lives in a beach house down a-ways.”

“You in one o’ them there marchin’ bands?”

“Not yet,” the young man said, “but I hope to be.  Auditions start Monday.”

“Ain’t you a mite old to be in school?” the old man asked.  “No offence, but…”

The young man laughed.  “It’s a military band, not a school band.  I’m a Marine, and I’m tryin’ out for The President’s Own.”

“The president’s own what?” the old man asked.

“United States Marine Band,” the young man explained.  “America’s oldest, professional musical organization.”

“Old as me?” the old man chortled.  “I’m old as dirt!”

“Well, the band formed in 1798, when John Adams was President.  I’m pretty sure you’re not that old!”

The old man paused, as if adding up the numbers.  Then, scuffing the sand with his black loafers, he said, “Since when do Marines dress in swim-trunks an’ walk ‘round barefoot?”

“Never when I’m on duty,” the Marine replied.  “But when I’m walkin’ down the beach, I like to blend in with everybody.”

“Blend in?” the old man snorted.  “No way you blend in, young feller.  Not with that there thing you’re wearin’ ‘round your neck!”

The young man patted the instrument he was carrying.  “You noticed her, eh?  She’s a Sousaphone.  Weighs a ton, but she makes a lotta noise when I get ‘er goin’.”

“Who’s Susie?” the old man asked, eyebrows knitted, not sure he’d heard right.

“Who’s who?” the Marine asked.

“Susie!  The one you said owns that there phone thingy.”

After puzzling a moment, the Marine said, “There’s no Susie, sir.  This here’s a Sousaphone, named after John Philip Sousa, one of the Leaders of the Band.”

The old man gave that some thought.  “I thought the leader of the band was McNamara.”

“Sir?” the Marine said, confused again.

“Like in that old-timey song,” the old man said.  “You musta heard of it.”  And without further ado, he began to sing in a cracked falsetto, “Oh, me name is McNamara, I’m the leader of the band…”

The Marine waited politely ‘til the song was finished, then applauded the effort.  “You know, The President’s Own doesn’t feature vocalists, which is too bad, ‘cause I woulda recommended you.”

“Yeah, I used to be a pretty fair tenor,” the old man nodded.  “Still ‘member a lotta the old songs.”  After a moment, he added, “Used to be in the service, too.”

“Marine?”

“Army, 7th Cavalry, served in Korea.  Took a bullet in ‘53, hurt like a bugger, so they hadda ship me home.”  As he spoke, he lifted his shirt to show a scar on his left side, pink and ragged against his pale skin.  “Got me one o’ them there Purple Hearts, but I lost a few good pals over there, guys who never made it back.  If I coulda chose, I prob’ly woulda sooner played that there Susiephone in a band.”

The Marine studied the old man with renewed interest.  “So, how old are you now, sir?”

“Lemme see,” the old man said, gazing skyward.  “This here’s two-thousan’-an’-twenty-five, so that makes me ninety-one, I s’pose.”  He danced a little jig in the sand as if to contradict the truth.

“So, you were wounded in combat when you were only nineteen?” the Marine said, shifting the weight of the Sousaphone on his shoulder.

“Yessir,” the old man replied.  “Hurt like a bugger, like I said, an’ when I got home, I still hadda wait two more years to vote!  Wasn’t old enough to drink, neither, but I never let that stop me!”  He mimed chugging a beer as he said it.

The Marine gazed at the old man for a moment.  “Sir, do you know Rusty’s Crab Shack, just down the beach a-ways?”

“Sure, I know it!”

“Sir, if you meet me there after my lesson’s done, it would be my honour to stand you to a drink.  Can we do that?”

The old man’s face lit up.  “Young feller, there’s no way an old grunt like me is gonna turn down a free drink from a Marine.  I’ll see ya there!”

And as it turned out, it was more than one drink.

Tracks in the Sand

One long-ago February, when winter’s white enveloped the north, one of our daughters came with her family to visit us in Florida.  The favourite activity for our grandson and granddaughter (the third of the clan being still an infant, unable to express her opinion) was going to the ocean, to the beach.

Our usual routines were fairly standard.  We’d park and unpack the car, each of us carrying the beach necessities according to our age and abilities.  We’d trudge the access path, through the dunes adorned with sea oats, pass through the rickety snow fence, and pick a spot that suited us all.

In short order, the umbrellas would be unfurled, the chairs unfolded, the blankets spread, and the toys strewn across the sand.  Peace would reign for Nana and Grandpa, watching the sleeping baby while her parents and older siblings hit the water.

beach-sand-grass-sunshine_tn2

On one such occasion, a small incident occurred which didn’t have much significance at the time.  In retrospect, however, it has become quite meaningful for me.

My daughter, my wife, and I embarked on a walk along the beach after the kids had finished splashing in the ocean.  Their dad stayed with them, helping build grand castles in the sand.

We decided to hike through the dunes on the way out, and come back along the shoreline.  I led off, sinking ankle-deep into the soft sand, feet clad in sandals to protect from the heat and the sandspurs.  After a few minutes, we came upon tracks in the sand, apparently made by some small creature, perhaps a mole.

What made the discovery unusual was that they suddenly stopped in a small depression in the sand, as if the mole had simply vanished.  The tracks ended without a trace.

My daughter suggested what might have happened.  The mole, she reckoned, had been taken by a predator, likely one of the falcons that frequent the area.  Indeed, on closer inspection, we could detect brush-marks in the sand, caused by the beating of a bird’s powerful wings.

We wended our way slowly, backtracking along the poor victim’s trail.  It occurred to me that, a scant few yards before the depression in the sand, the mole would have had no inkling it was about to die.  It was alive until it wasn’t.

Apparently, though, it knew it was under attack, for we found another, earlier depression in the sand where the bird had struck unsuccessfully.  The mole had jumped sideways, scurried under the protection of some sea-oats, then emerged again to flee along the sand.

Our backtracking ended when the trail curled away from the beach, into dense, long grasses, whence the mole had come.  We soon forgot about it as we continued our stroll, eventually heading back along the water’s edge to our grandchildren.

A few days later, I chanced to hear someone on the radio airily proclaiming that, if we all discovered the world was to end tomorrow, telephone lines everywhere would be jammed by people calling home to say all those things they had forgotten to say while there was still time.  Social media sites on the internet would crash from the traffic.  It made me think again of the mole whose tracks we had seen in the sand.

When it left its burrow for that final time, did it have its life in order?  Had it said all those things that matter to those who matter?  Or were there things it had left undone that should have been looked to sooner?

And I thought of myself.  Does my journey through life leave tracks in the sand for some other eye to see?  Am I subject to a mortal strike from some hidden foe?  And if, or when, it happens, am I prepared and at peace with those who care about me?

When I got right down to it, I didn’t see much difference between that mole and me.  Except one.  I’m still making tracks in the sand.  I still have time to ready myself for whatever is to come, and to be at peace with all who matter.

Such are the thoughts that arose as a result of a stroll along a sunny beach in Florida.