The Beach Club part one

This past weekend I took my son to his Oma and Opa's house on Long Island. They live in a lovely town with large homes, old trees, manicured landscaping, the same ubiquitous floral wreath on every door and quaint shops in the village. Because it rarely gets hot, most older homes do not have central air, relying on window AC units when the mercury rises above 90 degrees.

This weekend the hydrangeas were in blooms in various shades of blue and purple. Black-eyed susans danced in the breeze and impatiens brightened shady nooks in flower beds.

We spent a good amount of time at the Lawrence Beach Club on Atlantic Beach this weekend. It is an old club that some families have been going to for years and years. There is a main dining room, an upstairs dining room and bar area forbidden to children, lockers with showers for changing and cleaning up, a pool, tennis courts, playground, shaded dining deck, and of course lovely beach access.

We attended a Family Dance Saturday night geared toward the kids. The boys wear blue blazers, or the occasional seersucker suit. Some have ties, most wear shorts and loafers. The girls are lovely in their Lilly Pulitzer dresses or other cute sundresses with jaunty bows in their shoulder length hair. All the children are bronzed by the sun and run wild with the confidence that this is a safe place to be. Younger boys wrestle in the sand in their blue blazers or climb the dunes. The older boys try to look cool on the dance floor in their madras shorts and aviator sun glasses. The girls, all the girls, are on the dance floor twirling their dresses or learning the latest line dance.

My son chose to stick close to momma. He made several trips to the buffet learning that there are several types of salami. At the dessert buffet, he learned that his eyes are bigger than his stomach,leaving one of his two scoops of ice cream to turn to a cold soup.

At the end of the evening he asked to leave, feeling exhausted from playing on the dunes and dancing next to his table. One the way home, he asked if he could take off his "costume". I tried hard not to laugh in the back seat of the car. I had spent quite a bit of time earlier explaining that kids in New York dress differently than kids in Texas. He was convinced he looked silly in his blazer. Later he referred to it as "the stupid jacket". Again, I had to suppress my laughter. I had tried to get him to wear the outfit his Oma had planned for him complete with sand dollar tie. He looked adorable. But like his father, he has definite ideas about what looks good and what does not. Maybe next year, he will remember that all the kids dress that way and he will submit. Somehow I doubt it.