I Need More Sand

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I need more sand.

When I was in college in Miami and would go to the beach a major no-no was getting sand on someone’s blanket.  When you are covered with baby oil or wearing Bain de Soleil “for the San Tropez tan” the last thing you wanted was sand sticking to you as you were trying to catch rays.  (My major in college was ‘Solar Epidermal Radiation’ which translates to ‘getting a sun tan’)

While staying at a summer house on the Jersey Shore a cardinal sin was tracking sand into the house. You had to use the outdoor shower before entering the house after a day on the beach.

When I was a kid reading comic books, it seemed the bully would always kick sand into the face of the meek and mild character.

Sand used to be something you didn’t want stuck to your skin, in your house or in your face. But now I can’t get enough of it. I need more of it.

Sand is a granular material composed of finely divided rock and mineral particles. It is smaller and finer that gravel and coarser than silt. The sand at the beach was created over the last half billion years by various forms of life, like coral and shellfish. The whiter the sand the more limestone.

Mathletes will tell you that the amount of grains of sand on a beach is a finite number, meaning it can be calculated. Although it is a pretty large number, it is not an infinite one.

I realize that now and I need more sand.

Going back as far as ancient Egypt, people used sand in hourglasses to measure the passage of time. Hourglasses can be reused indefinitely by turning them over once the sand runs out.

If only.

Christopher Walken’s character Bruce Dickinson in the famous Saturday Night Live “cowbell” skit, when he is Blue Oyster Cult’s music producer for the song Don’t Fear the Reaper, says “Guess what? I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell.”

Well, the only prescription that I need is for more sand.

I need more sand for my wife Terry’s hourglass. I am afraid it cannot be turned over. When I picture Terry’s hourglass it has wings on it, depicting that her existence is fleeting, and that the “sands of time” are running out.

Sixteen months ago when Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, the sand began running through her hourglass faster and faster. I can’t seem to slow it down. No one can. So I need more sand.

During the summer Terry and I enjoy going to the Jersey Shore as often as we can. We take long walks, catch some rays, and take a dip in the cool, refreshing ocean. And we put our toes in the sand.

We often see parents at the beach with their kids collecting sea shells.  I think I might start collecting sand. Not to make a castle, but to try to put back into Terry’s hourglass.

This Thanksgiving I again have to travel for work. As in the past the travel is usually to a very nice place. Last year it was San Francisco, the year before it was Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, a common port-of-call in the 1970s and ‘80s for TV’s Love Boat. Trips to these beautiful places are wasted on me, since all I really want to do is be with Terry.

This year the destination is Cancun, to an “all-inclusive” resort. I dreaded going, leaving Terry behind. Terry can no longer manage on her own so my kids would have to take care of her while I am gone. They have to take time off from work and from their busy lives to be with her, and that bothers me.

So this year I bit the bullet and pulled the trigger (a mix of metaphors the NRA would approve of) and I bought Terry a plane ticket to Cancun and a very expensive admission to the resort. Normally I would never spend thousands of dollars for such a vacation (since it isn’t really a vacation, I have to work while there), but I had no choice. I may go in debt for a while but it will be worth it. Taking Terry with me will give me peace of mind, being able to take care of her and knowing she is safe. It will also give Terry a great week, hobnobbing with the rich and famous at this luxurious resort.

And most importantly, it will give us more sand. Maybe not for the hourglass, but at least for our toes.

Until next time, hope the sand runs slow through your hourglass, and your toes.

Bud