Lesson learned: Always bring your camera

Our storytime at the library was cancelled today, and in a desperate bid for something interesting to do I decided to make use of the "nice" weather and head for the beach. In Cleveland. In February. But hey, it wasn't precipitating, and the high temperature for today was 46F, so we were running around with our coats unzipped and hats left home and all sorts of other things that would never happen if it was summer time and 46 degrees outside.

Today was the first time Liza's been to the beach in the winter, and it was the first time in more than a decade that I've been back, and I have to say, I can't believe we haven't done this before now. It was so beautiful up there today, so still and calm and idyllic. Lake Erie is mostly thawed, at least near here, and the water was as still as glass. On the shore everything was frozen in the jumbled mess that you get when the water freezes, thaws, has a storm, freezes, freezes some more, etc. Thick plates of ice piled haphazardly on top of each other, puddles of melt with thin crusts of ice crystals on top, snow drifts - you name it, it was there.

Ostensibly we were there to go "treasure hunting," that is, look for cool rocks and beach glass to use to decorate the new kitchen. And we did that for a while, picking up cool-shaped rocks (me) and any rock she saw (Liza) and rinsing them off in the coldest puddle water I've ever felt. I kept busy steering the kid away from pocketing tampon applicators or anything I couldn't positively identify as a rock or shell.

After a while I pointed out to Liza that if we walked out on the jetty aways we could throw rocks into the water, and after that our future was set. While Liza attempted to fill up Lake Erie I tried to drink in every detail I could. Some of the ice was frozen into plates made of thin vertical tubes of ice that shattered off into little icicles when kicked or hit the right way with an errant pebble. Seagulls wheeled and shrieked offshore as they came in for a landing on an iceberg, and the resident ducks protested loudly. The water was deceptively still, mirror-like on the surface but still able to slop the slush up and down a few inches where it dove under the icy crust near shore. The millions of tiny mussel shells sounded almost musical as they clicked together when we scuffed along shell-paved parts of the shoreline. And it hardly smelled like dead fish at all.

After confirming that Liza's rainboots were filled with a liquid that didn't come from ice melt, we headed up to the parking lot for a change of clothes. You'd think that running around in urine-soaked tights in 40-degree weather would be uncomfortable, but apparently it's not enough to distract her from the important things in life, such as throwing monkey balls and running full speed through a 6" deep puddle filled with miniature icebergs.

Of course, this morning my answer to the question "Should I go back inside and get my camera?" was "No," so I don't have any photos of this whole expedition. In some ways, that's probably good ... I could focus on enjoying myself (and making sure Liza didn't pitch herself headfirst off the jetty). And now Liza and I have a little personal shared experience, something only we have seen.

Nope, that's not working. Still wish I had brought the camera. Oh, well - I'll just consider this as a good reason we have to go back again soon.