IT JUST DOESN’T’ GET BETTER THAN THIS…

This past weekend was the 27^th re-enactment of Sir Francis Drake’s 1586 raid on the Spanish outpost of San Agustin. It was done with all the enthusiasm and attention to historical detail that is so common in current day St. Augustine, and included a weekend encampment at the Fountain of Youth representing the city as it was in the 16^th century. A bonus for visitors to our city.

I volunteer on Saturdays at the new Colonial Quarter which tells three centuries of history from the earliest beginnings through the colonial period. The raid re-enactment wasn’t scheduled until 7:00pm and I finished at 5:00 so I decided visit the Taberna del Caballo, which is part of the Quarter but open to anyone who cares to come in off St George Street for a drink or a bite to eat, or both. Like stepping back in time to the 18^th century, this candle-lit tavern is typical of the 40 or more taverns that existed in this Spanish Garrison town.

I hiked myself onto a stool and ordered a beer and found myself chatting with a couple who were visitors to the area. He was a sailor stationed up in Jacksonville and so far this day, he’d had a fantastic time exploring St Augustine and many of the attractions it had to offer. I asked him if he was staying for Drake’s Raid.

 

“What raid?” he asked. So, I told him:

427 years ago on June 6^th, 1586 twenty-three ships approached the harbor of the Spanish colonial city of St. Augustine with 2000 Englishmen under the command of Sir Francis Drake.  1000 of these men, led by Captain Christopher Carlile came ashore on Anastasia Island and mounted cannons across the harbor from the Spanish wooden fort and begin to duel with the Spanish forces there. The Spanish were forced to abandon the fort during the night and with daylight approaching on the morning on the 8^th the English crossed Matanzas Bay, taking the fortification and proceeding to drive the Spanish from the city of St. Augustine, after which, Drake’s men burned the city to the ground.

And tonight, I went on, they will re-enact that raid. Skirmishing from the city gate to the plaza with pikes and swordfights and the firing of canon and muskets.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” the young man replied turning to his girl. “This day has been fantastic and now this. It just doesn’t get any better!”

  VIVA SAN AGUSTIN!

    

 

The local paper today had a photo of a Cub Scout placing flags at the local National Cemetery. My daughter texted to say they’d just driven by the National Cemetery on Long Island and seen all the flags by each marker there, mentioning how impressive it was. I’ve seen Arlington National with thousands of flags fluttering boldly next to thousands of small white markers marching into the distance. It occurred to me to ponder on the enormous number of flags placed by faithful hands all over the United States. A mind boggling number. Then, of course, was the sobering reality that each of those flags represents a young man or woman who sacrificed everything they had to preserve this country and all it stands for. From that chilly day in April, 1775 in Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts to this, through two world wars, Vietnam and Korea and now the Middle East, on land, at sea, and in the air.

When I was seventeen, I was a majorette and marched with the high school band. One of the most memorable of those times was one unusually hot Memorial Day – Hot at least, by New England standards. It was so hot that several members of the band fainted during the two-mile march from the town center to the cemetery and had to be carried off to recover. Once we got to the cemetery, we sat in a small patch of shade while the various dignitaries droned on. I have to confess, I don’t recall a single word any of them said. I was more intent on the welcome sight of my father hoofing it over the hill with a jug of ice water my mother had insisted he bring to us. The idea of gallant young soldiers, slain in the prime of their lives for a cause far larger than themselves seemed poignant, yet removed from me and my life.

My viewpoint today is far different. I’ve spent my share of three-day-weekends playing at the beach and enjoying parades and cookouts, but I’ve also come to a place in my life, where I take the time to reflect on what Memorial Day is really all about. Instead of watching a parade with the simple enjoyment of hearing the bands play and watching the uniformed representatives of the various military branches march past, I see the ghosts of those who never made it home to march in a parade. I’ve always flown my flag, but now, when I run it to the top of the pole and then lower it to half mast, I am remembering in my heart all those who have given all they had to preserve my freedom to fly it at all.

God bless each and every one of you and thank you for all you have given for me.

This is really about sisters and brothers and the place they hold in our hearts and our lives.

We get to choose our friends and the man or woman we marry and have children with, but our sisters and brothers we acquire on the luck of the draw by birth. We grow up squabbling over turf and parental approval, teasing and being teased. One day rivals, the next day allies. Most of us can remember times when our siblings were the only friends we had, hanging together on vacations or weathering a stormy day in the shelter of a fort built with chairs and blankets.

But then we grow up. We go off to college, or into the workforce. We move away, or join the military and move all the time. Our interests pull us even further apart and we get busy raising our own children. Too often, we forget to take time to keep the relationships of our childhoods alive and vibrant and healthy. But this past week, I was reminded how truly precious and beautiful time spent with our brothers and sisters all grown up can be.

When I first moved to my little island, there was a lovely woman who invited me to join her for various little impromptu get-togethers. Sadly, she passed away last year and in the days and weeks that followed, I got to meet most of her children who came to deal with all the stuff that a death in the family brings. They had a gathering to honor their mom, of course, and I saw them often while we chatted over my fence about the mundane and the unusual in settling the estate. Eventually the decision was made to sell their mom’s house, and as each of them left for the last time (or so I thought) we said goodbye and wished each other well.   

But last week, they all showed up (or most of them anyway.) They were staying at a neighbor’s place and had rented another small cottage to make room for them all. I was invited to a casual party when they first arrived, but the thing that made me smile the most and remember again, just how wonderful good sibling relationships can be, was their habit of walking down each night to say goodnight to the ocean. Usually with a glass of wine in hand, and generally long enough after the sun had set for darkness to have fallen, I’d hear the cheerful chatter of the small group as they passed by my house. They always gathered at the seawall, a close little cluster of shadows against the backdrop of the nighttime ocean, and the murmur of comfortable conversation drifted softly in the warm evening air, punctuated by chuckles and laughter.

They were lucky to have a perfect week weather-wise, but even luckier, I think, to have that week together. They make time for each other, and that makes their lives so much richer. Now they’ve returned to their scattered homes and no happy little group passed by last night, so I walked down the seawall by myself and said goodnight to the ocean for them. And while I was there, I whispered goodnight to my own brother and sister. And  thanked God that my grown-up children still make time to be together, and know the joy of a companionship that will last for a lifetime.

   

An Op-ed piece in yesterday’s paper suggested that it was only the wealthy and congressmen eager to be out of Washington who were benefited by the exception to the sequester voted in and signed by Obama to end the Air Traffic Controller furloughs. But I beg to differ. It was my misfortune to have a ticket to fly from Jacksonville Florida to JFK in New York three days after the furloughs began. I knew there were delays expected and checked my flight before I left home but at that moment, it was still ON TIME. Two hours later, as I got off the shuttle from extended parking, it was half an hour delay. At first this seemed like it might be good, because I’d never seen security lines as long at JAX before. It took me nearly 45 minutes to clear security, get my shoes back on, my water bottle filled and get to my gate. By then the expected departure time had been extended an additional hour. I settled in to read, thankful that I had only myself to worry about.

The woman on one side of me had an active one-year-old, who was eager to explore which meant his mom had to schlepp all her gear and his to keep up with him during our extended wait. On the other side of me was an obviously ill young woman in a wheel chair. She was already tired. Two sailors headed home after a long deployment waited patiently though I’m sure they were eager to see their families as soon as possible. Businessmen glanced anxiously at their watches, probably concerned about being late for meetings. There were older couples, other families with young children. None of us looked like the well-to-do who were supposed to be most affected by the actions of congress to exempt air traffic controllers.

After several more delays the flight was eventually cancelled more than three hours after it should have taken off. A single clerk at the counter began the thankless task of rebooking a long line of angry, frustrated, tired travelers who now had to find somewhere to spend the night before returning to the airport on the following day, where they would have to face the gauntlet of checking bags and security clearance yet again. I was fortunate that I have a dear friend with a guest room who lives just minutes from the airport. In spite of the upheaval of packing for a long cross country trip, she welcomed me into her home and fed me breakfast before sending me off again. But I wondered about that woman with the little boy – they both arrived back at the airport in the same clothes they’d worn the day before. And what about the ill young woman who was probably aching for a chance to rest in peace and privacy? Or the sailors who had to wait yet another day to get home? There had to be at least some businessmen who missed meetings. And everyone had to find some place to stay if they didn’t happen to live in Jacksonville.

The following morning my flight was delayed again, but did finally get off the ground. For me this created yet more travel issues to deal with. Originally my daughter was to pick me up when my flight landed in the early evening, but now I’d arrive in the middle of her workday. She works in Manhattan so picking me up was out of the question. She offered to send a car, but the Scots in me balked at this expense and I opted for the Airtrain which stops at all JFK terminals and connects with the Long Island Rail Road in Jamaica. I asked a young man if he knew which train we were to catch. He thought he knew, but we both ended up getting on the wrong train and were fortunate that another rider told us where to get off to board the right one. We pulled into Jamaica 2 minutes too late to catch the next train that would have taken me to my destination so had to wait nearly another hour. Finally, I stepped off that train in East Williston and walked to my daughter’s house dragging my wheeled bag behind me. The UP side of this adventure? I now know how to get to my daughter’s home without relying on anyone to come fetch me from the airport. The downside? It took me 28 hours to get there – a journey that should have been 6 max!

Now, if only congress could work together to solve some of the other messes they’ve made!

 
For anyone not familiar with the Boston Marathon - it's a HUGE event. It's a world class event, welcoming thousands of runners from all over the world. An event that has been going on since 1897. It's always held on Patriots Day, which is a holiday in Massachusetts. Not only do families and friends of the thousands of runners come to cheer on their dads, moms, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons and spouses, but so does half of Boston and all the towns along the race route. Thousands of cheering, happy people there for a day of triumph and celebration.
 
A few years back my son ran in this prestigious race. This year my nephew and his family were in Boston to cheer on the runners. It was a beautiful day - a perfect day for a race. The streets are lined for over twenty-six miles with folk who come out to cheer the runners on, hand off bottled water and enjoy the tradition. The finish line loomed just a few feet away, complete with flags, bleachers and cheering crowds. If it hadn't been for an antsy toddler, my nephew might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A time when someone wanted to hurt America by setting off two improvised bombs with the sole purpose of creating as much pain and loss as possible.

Is this the price we pay for being who we are? For the freedoms we enjoy? For the prosperity and all that America stands for? We don't yet know if it was terrorists from outside, or disgruntled, home-grown terrorists, but whoever chose this path to express their hatred, they won't win. Boston is better than this. America is better than this. 

In the chaotic seconds and minutes after the first and then the second bomb exploded, echoing off the buildings and leaving screaming bloody victims in their wake, heroes rushed in. Runners that had just finished the race, bystanders there to cheer folk across the finish line, medical personnel on hand to assist exhausted runners, soldiers, policemen, volunteers. Many didn't know what had happened. Many didn't know where to go or what to do. But so very many ran toward the scene of destruction with the sole purpose of doing whatever they could. Some runners, already exhausted by covering 26 miles to reach that point ran two more miles to donate blood at area hospitals. That's what America is made of.

Boston is a wonderful city with history, tradition and soul. I know it will regain its confidence, even if it has lost a piece of its innocence. There will be grieving and those whose lives have been forever changed have a long hard road ahead. But America is pulling for them. When the runners and spectators return next year, there may be an edge of defiance, but the race will go on. Boston will celebrate. America will triumph again. My thoughts and prayers are with all who were touched most deeply. God bless you today and in all the difficult days ahead.  

 

A few Christmases ago Santa left three smooth Petco balls in Duffy’s stocking.  Duffy loved them and had a grand time playing with them on the beach. Duff has his own rules about balls on the beach and they don’t include fetch, or drop the ball at my feet so I can toss it again. Instead, he dashes down the beach dribbling it with his feet and snatching it up to toss into the air. Eventually he stops to roll on it and finally digs a hole into which the ball rolls. Usually! Then there are those odd occasions when he gets sidetracked and leaves the ball to roll slowly toward the water. Then I have to wade in and retrieve it. He loves the game and most of the time I don’t mind letting him play ball his way, although it would be nice to have a dog that brought the ball back to me when he’s done with it.

Eventually all three of those lovely smooth balls broke, but Petco no longer carries that particular type. I tried replacing them with a variety of other balls dogs are supposed to love. Anything but a tennis ball. Tennis balls are, of course, Duff’s all time favorites. But have you ever put a soggy tennis ball in your pocket? Slobber would be bad enough, but since all Duff’s games end with letting the ball roll into the water, they get downright soaked. And that leaves a soggy patch in my shorts or jeans requiring me to change when I get home. Unfortunately, I ended up giving all the replacements away to other less choosy dogs. Then it occurred to me to try a racquet ball.

So, off we go on a brisk breezy Saturday to play with our new ball. Duff loved it. He romped and tossed and had a grand time with it. Then, suddenly something caught his attention just before the hole-digging phase - which would have resulted in the ball rolling safely to the bottom of a nice sandy divot.  As usual, the ball began to roll toward the sea, but then a gust of wind caught it and it changed direction. Now it was headed down the beach - away from me. I walked faster. The wind blew harder. The ball picked up speed. I began to run, but the ball was gaining ground faster than I was. Duff loved this new game, and he began gamboling around me. I pointed toward the ball and shouted for him to go fetch it. This is when I really would have loved a dog who understood the theory behind “fetch.” Although to cut Duff some slack, the ball was now so far away, he probably couldn’t see it any more. So, here I am huffing and puffing after a ball that is leaving me in the dust with a dog jumping and caroming off me in joyous abandon.

WHOSE BALL IS THIS ANYWAY? The thought ran through my brain as my lungs threatened to explode. I am NOT a runner. I never have been. Not even when I was younger. I stopped running and gave up. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching up anyway. But luck was on my side after all. A particularly exuberant wave surged up the beach, snatched the ball from its get-away run and hauled it back into the frothy turbulence. It still bobbed there, blue and wet when I reached the place it had met its match. And it didn’t leave a soggy damp spot in my shorts when I shoved it back into my pocket. Although I doubt we’ll play ball on the next gusty day either.

My Tenth Anniversary

Last night I attended the Great Easter Vigil at St Anastasia on the island in St Augustine. It was the tenth anniversary of my joining the worldwide Catholic Communion.

That night ten years ago in Tonga was the culmination of a journey I’d been on for years, but for family reasons, had never quite completed.  But that year my daughter became engaged to a faithful Catholic man. The idea of joining the Catholic Church wasn’t new to her either as she’d been enrolled in CCD classes during her growing up years. So, now, with her wedding approaching, she was preparing to be received into the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil. I was in the Peace Corps and stationed half a world away, but the closeness my daughter and I had always shared seemed to reach out and tell me it was my time, too. I went to see the bishop of Tonga for guidance and was set on a course of retreats with the sisters at the convent on my remote little island. Thus it was that thousands of miles apart, my daughter and I stood before our respective congregations on that most solemn and joyous of Christian festivals and confessed our faith anew.

As I sat in the pew last night, waiting for the lights to dim and the vigil to begin, I remembered back to Holy Week in Tonga, to the rituals that are so much the same for Catholics everywhere, and yet can be so different in each culture. Not just in language, but in observance and passion.

This year our new pope celebrated Maundy Thursday by washing the feet of young prisoners in Rome. He broke tradition by including women as well. Ten years ago in Tonga, the priest at my church washed the feet of young people preparing for confirmation. Often in our churches here in the states, it is people chosen from the congregation.  

On Good Friday my second year back at home in the United States, I experienced the Way of the Cross at the cathedral in St Augustine, Florida. The cross bearer, two boys with candles and the priest rushed from station to station rattling off the prayers so rapidly that I found it impossible to follow and had no time for reflection. Just a few years before I’d dressed in the traditional Tongan black and followed a young man carrying an enormous and very heavy cross through the steamy streets of Neiafu on my tiny South Pacific island stopping to pray at length fourteen times. Each time it was harder for the young man to pick up his burden and move on. Near the end, he was hoisted up and his arms lashed to the arms of the cross. He pressed his heels in hard against a one-inch block beneath his feet for support. As the prayers dragged on and the silences stretched out, the young man’s muscles began to quiver with the effort and sweat poured down his face. He wore a crown of thorns and it had pricked his skin adding his own blood to the sweat. It gave me, for the first time, a viscerally intense picture of the physical torment Christ endured during those three hours he was nailed to a cross to die for me and for many to wash away our sins. Two similar rituals, yet very different in impact.

Another vivid memory I have of my Holy Week in Tonga was the all night vigil. Each village was assigned an hour to keep watch at the cathedral in Neiafu. Our village had two to three o’clock in the wee hours of the night. I slept for a couple hours before rising to join my neighbors. We rode to town in the back of a pick up truck, then, in our traditional Tongan garb, filed into the cathedral to the small chapel set up for this night. It was decorated as only Tongans can decorate, with silver streamers and impossibly brilliant imitation flowers. Gaudy by my standards, but beautiful by theirs. We began with prayer, but then moved to singing. One thing the Tongans do supremely well is singing a cappella. They have beautiful voices and they pour their hearts and souls into it. We knelt on the hard stone floor, singing and praying in the still, semi-dark cathedral until we were relieved by the next village on the schedule. The ladies returned to the pickup truck while the men gathered in a cluster on the cathedral steps to talk. I remember laying with the other women on mats lining the bed of the truck, cocooned in the tropical night air, in the stillness of that hour, listening to the soft murmur of the men’s voices and staring at the vast array of stars overhead. I was filled with such peace and it was a moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Then came the Easter Vigil. I’d spoken with my daughter earlier by phone. I knew that in a few hours, she would be standing at the front of her church in New York, just as I was now standing at the front of the Cathedral on a tiny island in the South Pacific. Having grown up and been confirmed in the Episcopal church, we weren’t being confirmed, but rather reaffirming our creed and being received into the Catholic Communion. We had studied and explored the nuances of our new allegiance. We had made a good confession and been cleansed. We were eager and ready to confess our faith and be marked with oil.

When I left Tonga the following year in the middle of lent, I journeyed home through New Zealand where I worshipped at the Catholic Cathedral in Christchurch on the South Island. I found another Catholic church in Sydney Australia the following Sunday. The accents were different, but the words familiar. Palm Sunday found me in Thailand where I understood not a single word of the prayers or sermon, but it was the mass and I knew the English prayers in my head.  It began with a procession in the quiet streets of a neighborhood of homes and embassies in Bangkok. We carried palms and sang hosannas as we went. Later, inside the church, when we joined hands to say the Lord’s Prayer, I felt I was a tiny link in an endless chain that circled the globe. It felt good. Easter I celebrated in Vietnam, in an English speaking church a local man had directed me to in Hanoi. The voices were lighter and more lyrical than those in Tonga, but the music was just as heavenly. I realized I was now at home wherever I went anywhere in the world. As I repeated the prayers then and still, I know I share those moments with brothers and sisters in Christ who believe and worship just as I do in every part of this place we call Earth.

 

 

Today was Philip’s second birthday. Only he wasn’t here to celebrate it, to smash his cake into crumbs and smear frosting on his face. He didn’t get to open presents or to enchant us all with his glee and his winning, dimpled smile. He never got a chance to be two years old, just like he’ll never climb aboard a big yellow bus for his first day of school, or wear a gown and a cap with a tassel to receive a well-earned diploma. He’ll never learn to swim, or play baseball, or create music with an instrument. He’ll never fall in love, get married or have children of his own. And those he left behind will miss every one of those things and so much more.

It’s been 118 days since an accident took Philip’s life. Days filled with memories, tears, grief and growth. His birthday was no different. We marked the day with cupcakes and balloons, but we did it at the cemetery. When my daughter first picked this spot, she noted that there was a small airport nearby which seemed appropriate because Philip was fascinated with planes. Living under the approach lanes for the nearest big airport, ‘airplane’ was one of his first words as he looked up to follow the big planes taking off and landing. So, it seemed fitting that twice while we were at the cemetery, a small plane flew over our little ceremony on the ground. We sang happy birthday and sent our wishes aloft with bright blue balloons.

In the evening, we gathered once again at a nearby school playground to inflate and set Chinese lanterns aloft with messages and love. And once again, Philip got his fly-over as several big planes climbed into the inky night sky from LaGuardia. Meanwhile family in Maryland, New Hampshire and Massachusetts were joined in spirit as they, too, set lanterns and balloons free to climb into the sky.

Happy Birthday, Philip. We love you and miss you so.

        

It's out the door....... 

Sending a manuscript off to an editor or an agent is tougher than you might think. At least it is for me. All the writers I know talk about their manuscripts like they do their children and it's hard to send your child out into the world to be judged. On one hand, I want very much to have it accepted and one day grace the shelves of a bookstore where I can go admire the result of so many hours of hard work. Or listed on Amazon.com or B&N where gadget savvy folk can go to download it onto their Kindles and Nooks.  But I poured so much of my heart into this story and I want to be absolutely sure it has been polished and tweaked into the best possible book it can be before I send it out into that unforgiving world.

The characters in my book have become my friends. I've nurtured and taught them. I've spent hours, days and months with them and in many ways I know them better than I know myself. I want the rest of the world to love them as much as I do, but am I really ready to send them out there? Really? Maybe there was a better way to make my hero come to terms with his past? Was my heroine gutsy enough?  Was she too feisty? And what about that side-kick?

And even if I am totally convinced that my characters are all they should be, there are still questions. Did my dialog sparkle? Was it realistic? Maybe I should have consulted one of my grandkids on dialog for that teenager that became so important? Did I fail to research carefully enough? What did I miss? And even when I’m confident on all those issues, what about the finished product? Have I dotted every i and crossed every t?  Is all my punctuation spot on?

Then there is the synopsis. Another very important piece, but one that’s totally not fun to write. And Finally, the cover letter or query. That first impression that must capture the interest of the editor in just a sentence or two. But eventually there comes a moment when you just have to take the plunge. You have to zip up their jackets, kiss them on the forehead and send them out to catch the bus.

And while they are off conquering new worlds, it’s time to go back to the beginning and start again. Create some new characters. Fall in love with them and then mess up their lives so there will be a story to tell. The life of a writer.....

You wouldn't know it from this photo, but not so long ago, this was a busy little river.

When I first moved to Summer Haven, a lovely little river meandered along behind the protective dunes. It was the home of dozens of species of birds and critters and men had fished it for centuries. When this island was first inhabited in 1885, there were no bridges and folk had to sail down here from St Augustine on the Matanzas River, into which our little Summer Haven River flowed. In the beginning the people who lived and summered here centered their little community on the river where new arrivals first came ashore. A hotel squatted on that welcoming shore and it boasted wonderful views of the busy little river as well as the ocean beyond the dunes. There was a store, a clubhouse with a room big enough for dancing, and more than one boarding house to accommodate all the summer “campers.” For a tiny barrier island, Summer Haven has a very interesting history and connections to some very influential folk over the years, but that’s another story.

 

A bridge over sand - no water            Standing in the middle of what was the river       

In 1964, I’m told, a hurricane ravaged this little island and took out a chunk of Route A1A, the road that runs along this chain of barrier islands on the east coast of Florida. What was left of the road on Summer Island became Old A1A and a new road a few hundred yards to the west took its place while a sea wall was built to protect what was left of the shore. But in 2008 another series of storms forged a new breakthrough at the point where the road and the seawall ended and the dunes began. Talk immediately began on how to “fix” this breakthrough before sand infiltrated the river and became a problem. Needless to say every alphabet agency with even the most tenuous connection to such issues jumped into the discussion. And there everything stalled. Sand pushed in on every higher than average tide and began to fill the river, swallowing docks and oyster beds, choking off the natural flushing system for the Matanzas inlet, obliterating the habitat of creatures as diverse as manatees, loggerhead turtles, snowy egrets and others who once used the river to forage and nest. Access to boat launching ramps and the Helen Mellon Schmidt Public Park was lost.

    Docks swamped and surrounded by sand. All the boats have been hauled out and access to the Matanzas river lost.

Since then the sea has finally healed the breach it created, but not before the entire protective dune system fringed with lush Australian Fir was destroyed. The river is only a memory now. I don’t know where the fish have gone, but the state just finished repairing a bridge that no longer spans any water. A brave and tenacious neighbor has spearheaded the effort to restore the Summer Haven River, but you would not believe the nonsense she has had to swallow. I’d have punched a few noses by now for sure. The most vociferous are the tern people. You would think, to hear them argue their case that these migratory birds had been nesting here for a millennium. But that is so not the case – they nested less than a ¼ mile away on the north side of the Matanzas Inlet before. And far from becoming inhospitable due to human encroachment, this area has been declared off limits to vehicles by the National Park Service. Then a very expensive study had to be done to determine if it would be appropriate to put the sand currently choking the Summer Haven River back onto the beach! Are you kidding? Where did they think that sand came from in the first place? It is suggested that rebuilding the protective dune would put a barrier between the nesting turns and the sea where they forage for their food. WHAT? When did terns cease to fly? They aren’t emus, for Pete’s sake! As I said, the arguments get pretty ridiculous. And those of us who love this place, we still miss our river. We’d like to look out and see herons and egrets wading around at the edge of a restored and healthy river. We’d like to be able to kayak and fish in its waters and see manatees cruising by again. I’m sure the folk who own the oyster licenses would like to have their livelihoods back and boaters would like access to the Matanzas River and the Atlantic Ocean once again.  It’s past time to bring this little river back to health and preserve this historic Summer Haven community.