According to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, time is not constant; it is, in fact, relative to the speed of light. In other words, the passage of time depends on the reference frame of the observer. If, say, you are moving faster than the speed of light and I am moving slower than the speed of light (which I must certainly do!), time will pass faster for you, slower for me. At least I think that’s relativity in a nutshell. If I’m off by a second or two, I’m sure some physicist reading this will correct me. (Right, Bob?)
Beach Week 2024 is over. It does seem to fly by, although less so for me, perhaps. To paraphrase Julius Caesar, “I came, I saw, I survived.” It was touch and go for a while, like the time I was designated “elderly” by a certain Bonepicker who shall remain nameless, and therefore eligible for a higher beach chair than the low riders favored by the cool members of the younger generations. OK, so I am older; I admit it. But mock me at your own peril; my memory is still razor sharp, and someday, young pups, this old dog just may bite you back.
And then there was Debby. As Hurricanes or Tropical Storms go, Debby didn’t pose as much of a problem as we had feared. She graciously veered to the west, giving us merely a glancing blow. (Others were not so fortunate; there is not an ounce of schadenfreude in me.) To be honest, I was glad to have a day off from the beach; my skin was already turning to leather and I had just fallen in love with a new book: Charles Frazier’s new novel “Varina.” It’s an account of the the last days of the Civil War, as told by Varina Davis, Jefferson Davis’ wife. Frazier is a sumptuous writer. I first encountered him in “Cold Mountain” several years ago. A subsequent novel didn’t rise to that occasion, but not only does this one satisfy, it’s also a feast of words, metaphors, and ideas. Anyway, some delightful couch reading with the Olympics in the background was just what the doctor ordered for our one rainy day. But never fear: the next day, the surf was up and we were back on the beach, albeit with our numbers somewhat reduced from 34 to 24.
If our days were spent on the beach, our nights were devoted to Valkyrien feasting. At least for the adults; the kids needed nothing more than chicken nuggets and tater tots with an occasional dollop of mac-and-cheese. The adult fare, however, was much more epicurean and substantial; crab cakes one night, lobster tails another night, sushi yet another. OK; on our last night maybe we did just order a couple of pizzas, but you know what? They hit the spot, too.
The house we rented didn’t make a great first impression, but first impressions are often inaccurate. Most of the chaos stayed on the second floor near the ping-pong table, while the third floor offered a reasonably quiet breakfast nook and plenty of room to play games or watch the Olympics. Thankfully, there was an elevator for the elderly among us; I can’t imagine how we would have moved in or moved out without it.
But back to time and its quirky relativity. Already, there is talk of what will happen fifty-one weeks hence. Some say they may plan a different adventure for next year; others cry, “Heresy!” Elderly me? Since I’m slower than the speed of light, I’ll just wait and see.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.
His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon.
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