Too Beautiful to Remain Indoors

After Michael and I spend the morning working on a jigsaw puzzle from hell, we both need a break. I check the weather forecast and peek out the back door. A brilliant sun, warm air, and a bluer-than-blue sky say hello. The day beckons. It is too perfect to stay inside.

I find Michael and share my thoughts—a picnic. Somewhere. I don’t care where. He suggests taking the ferry to the Bolivar Peninsula. To me, that sounds better than perfect. I plan for a finger food picnic, remembering from last year that benches by the water abound, but picnic tables are rare.

Not wanting to waste time shopping for the perfect picnic, I take an inventory of the meager items I have on hand, pleased with myself for planning on afternoon happy hours that only happened once—so I have choices—some of them almost healthy.

Boiling, slicing, and grilling complete, I begin packing our picnic in a burlap tote. From the next room, Michael informs me that he made reservations at Galveston State park for 3 pm.

It is 1:15.

“But everything’s ready,” I sigh, “me too.” All of which is highly unusual, and Michael is in a state of shock. But this is a simple picnic for me—put together in record time. No tart. No dessert. I packed two plates just in case we decide to be civilized.

A Picnic at Galveston State Park

So, at 2 pm, we arrive at the entrance to the state park and beg forgiveness, we are very early. No problem—there is plenty of room! Driving the short distance to the parking lot, Michael finds a space close to the picnic area. Saying it is empty is an understatement.

Michael grabs our single tote, and we walk toward the dunes, having a choice of picnic shelters. There is absolutely no one else here. Apparently, not a single soul (other than me) thought having a picnic late in the afternoon during the first week of January 2023 was a good idea.

I’m a wee bit disappointed that we aren’t directly on the water, and the blue sea is just beyond the dunes. I find one table with a minuscule view of the Gulf, and I sit on top of the table facing the sea, thinking Michael will join me on my tabletop perch.

Wrong.

I give up and sit beside him on the bench, still able to see a tiny bit of the water. As we munch on fingerling potatoes with a garlicky aioli dipping sauce, accompanied by crisp celery sticks and slices of spicy grilled chicken, a ranger walks by and says hello. He is here to show us his treasure.

The Park Ranger

The park ranger has been weed-eating a few shelters down from us and almost demolished the long thin ribbon that is a pale green grass snake. He holds it in his large, sturdy hands and talks to us for quite a while extolling the virtues of the reptile that is constantly in motion, mentioning the fact, “…and it only bit me once. It didn’t even draw blood.”

I just nod.

As he turns, ready to leave, he tells us, “I just wanted to share.” I understand the sentiment. I always want to share what I consider the wonder of my discoveries. Michael constantly tells me not everyone is interested in what I love. I hope he’s wrong.

Sand and Sea and Sea Creatures

Finishing our cheese course of creamy gorgonzola with Randall’s baker-made crostini and Mother Nature’s huge red grapes, we pack up the detritus of our simple feast and head for the sea and the sand.

Cresting the dunes and looking down at the beach, we see that this is where the action is. We begin walking and looking, and I try to capture the essence of the day.

Fascinated by two bright plastic digging tools that lay abandoned on the beach next to a pile of sand, my imagination wanders. Based on the pastel colors, I’m sure two little girls were busy at work sometime earlier. I wonder what caused them to abandon their endeavor—what other amazing thing drew their attention? Or was it merely a parent telling them it was time to go?

Sea birds cry. And fly. And beg. Always looking. Searching.

A little beyond, buried in the sand, I see two halves of a whole. Broken and shattered, the delicately beautiful shells were too fragile to survive the tumult of the sea. It is a pair of angel wings—the largest I have ever seen and the first time I have seen both halves together.

I want to take them home, wash the sand from their lacy exterior, and share their wonder. I’ll place them with my books, but I am afraid I will damage the delicate shells further. So I walk away.

And search for Michael.