Atlantic City, Circa 1950
by Elayne Clift

It’s a ritual. Every Sunday we go to the beach in Atlantic City.
We pile into the big black Buick fighting for the window seat,
Picnic lunch, towels, buckets and shovels, all at the ready,
Along with dress-up clothes for dinner at Cap'n Stearns Restaurant,
After which we “walk the boards” where stores are perpetually
Going Out of Business.

At Chalfont Haddon Hall we secure lockers, and keys,
Hang our evening clothes and stow our shoes,
Then don rubber beach shoes, apply suntan lotion,
And trail after our parents, striped towels dragging.
On the beach, seagulls squawk, strutting their stuff,
White-clad ice cream vendors, cold boxes on their shoulders,
Bellow "Pop-sicle! Get your ice-cold fudge-sicle!"

Ocean breakers slam the beach, parents scold their children,
Cranky from the grind of gritty sand between their toes.
Parents go to the boardwalk in search of salt-and-vinegar French fries,
Saltwater taffy, or chocolate covered turtles.
Striped umbrellas dot the beach, baguettes shimmer on the sea,
The salt smell in the air and a humid breeze cool our bodies.

We try waiting an hour after lunch to swim to avoid stomach cramps,
But we cheat, run to the ocean's edge to test how cold the water is.
Turning our backs to breaking waves, we jump over the crests.
Then we return to the blanket to snack and read comic books.
At five o'clock my father complains that we’ll be late for dinner.
We shake the blanket, return the rented umbrella, trudge across hot dunes.

Dressed "to beat the band" as my mother says, we head for Cap'n Stearns,
And order the same thing every Sunday. Sometimes spotlights roam the sky,
And we wonder if Miss America is in town. We beg for a wicker rickshaw ride,
View shiny new GM cars and marvel that a lady would actually dive into the ocean
On a horse the way the sign says. My brother rides the mechanical airplanes,
And we spin on the merry-go-round on horses that go up and down.

At ten o'clock, we crawl into the Buick. No one talks. My brother sleeps.
It happens every summer Sunday. It is a ritual.



 

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