Donna Fletcher~

The Old Man And The Beach Umbrella byDonna Fletcher The throngs of sun worshipers marched in sporadic succession along the empty beach.The early morning sun found the faithful followers staking their claims to the most sought after locations. Arms were weighted down with beach apparatus: sand chairs, beach balls, blankets, pails and shovels, thirst-quenching drinks and numerous multicolored beach umbrellas.Young children clung to their mothers’ tote bags, swinging their small, round inner tubesand squealing with delight at the sight of the rolling waves running up the sand to tickle their tiny bare toes.Muscle-bound men with cocoa-colored skin stalked the water’s edge showing off bodiesthat took hours at a gym to maintain. Young girls smiled at them while tossing their goldenmanes back and swinging their slim hips in invitation.Mothers and fathers of various ages watched the mating game with fond memories as theseaside resort came to life for the day.

Donna Fletcher~

“It’s a hot one today, folks,” announced the obnoxious voice on the blaring radio.“Soaring, soaring into the 90s,” it continued before drifting off to mingle with the multitude of sun worshipers.Joe shook his head while mumbling to his wife, Emma. “Stupid machine’s going todeafen everyone in five feet of it.”“Perhaps,” Emma nodded. The plastic, flip-flops she wore digging up the hot sand and propelling the tiny particles like miniature missiles at her husband’s bare legs.Joe continued, shaking his head. “That woman never listens always wearing those dumbsandals. After thirty-five years of marriage you’d think she’d take my advice, but no, she wearsthe stupid things anyway.”Emma stopped abruptly, almost causing Joe to bump into her. “Did you say something,Joe?”“Nah didn’t say anything,” he grumbled, running his hand across the bald spot that firstappeared thirty years ago and had grown sparser year after year.Emma lifted the brim of her wide straw hat and pulled her sunglasses down to rest on thetip of her nose. She surveyed the area with squinting eyes. “This is perfect, Joe.”“Are you sure?” he asked. “Last time you made me move it twice.”She pushed her red-rimmed glasses back and nodded her head. “Positive.”

Donna Fletcher~

Joe didn’t argue. He was too hot, and all he wanted was to get the umbrella up so hecould sit and enjoy the beach.They had been coming here every summer, first as a young married couple, then as parents, toting along their three children, until finally they were once again alone.The years had been good, though: he couldn’t complain. Emma and he had aged well.Some extra weight here and there, white hair for her, none for him, but that all was expected withthe passage of time.After arranging the two sand chairs with a clear view of the ocean, Emma began to coather pale skin with suntan lotion. “Best hurry, Joe, you know how your head always burns.”Joe muttered to himself and patted his bald spot. “Earned that I did.”“Yes, dear,” Emma answered, continuing to smear the thick cream over her arms.Joe picked up the red and white striped beach umbrella and jammed the point into thesand, moving it back and forth a few times to make certain it was planted firmly.His lean fingers searched beneath the striped canvas for the release button and pressedhard against the metal knob. Nothing happened. He shook it gently and tried again. Nothing. Not one to back down in the face of adversity, he unbuttoned his beach jacket, tossed iton the chair and tried again.He jiggled, shook, pushed, pried and choked the rigid pole, but the button refused to budge.