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The song says, "I left my heart in San Francisco".  For me, I would change the lyrics to "I left my heart in Southampton".

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My formative years were spent on Long Island, New York.  The town of Mineola, to be exact.  Which you've probably never heard of unless you're from Long Island.  Think small town filled with Portuguese people.  Kind of like the town in Mystic Pizza.  Except Mystic is in Connecticut.  And Julia Roberts is not Portuguese.

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Portuguese families ARE very tight (just like Julia Roberts' fictional family in Mystic Pizza), and my grandparents lived minutes away from us in Mineola.  I saw them practically every day until the age of 8.

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My grandfather aka Papa was a Portuguese immigrant who came to this country with nothing but his integrity and an ironclast work ethic.  He founded a construction company and slowly secured his small portion of the American Dream.

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He secured a plot of land in Southampton, New York overlooking Little Peconic Bay and built two houses with his own two hands.  Literally.  He loved to tell the story of how it cost him $14,000 to build the house that was our family's beloved beach house.

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All of my birth - 8 year-old summers were spent out at The Beach House.  (Technically, I was also there when I was incubating in my mother's womb.)  So many attributes of The Michelle of Today can be traced back to those magical summers.

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For instance, the guitar pictured top left next to Baby Michelle is the very same guitar that I picked up at age 8.  I taught myself how to play it with the John Denver Songbook.  In fact, I NEVER STOPPED playing it that summer and nearly set my mother over the edge.

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Pictured top center is Kindergarten Michelle fostering her newfound love of boats.  I begged my father and Papa to take my on boat rides daily.

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At first there was the dingie.  Then there was the cute little sailboat that my father christened "Mishy Lou".  Later there was Papa's motorboat.  And lastly, Uncle Johnny's Hobie Cat.  Which he nearly capsized one suddenly stormy afternoon with my sister and I on board.  My mother required Valium by the time we returned to the house.

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Pictured top right is Toddler Michelle showing her talent for athleticism and sport.  Not!  I assure you that mini soccer match with Nana lasted a whopping 2 minutes before I ran screaming for my dollies.  Or to my Papa for a boat ride.

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Pictured below left is 2nd grade Michelle swimming in The Pond with Pepino the Chihuahua.  (Google translate "pepino" from Portuguese to English and report back to me your bewilderment in the comments section.  That way I'll know you're paying attention and humoring me by reading this entire blog.  :-D )

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Yep.  I was the definition of "water baby".  Rumor has it that I swam solo across the inlet at the ripe old age of 6.  It's a wonder my mother didn't develop a Valium addiction.  She's one of those extreme Nervous Nelly types.

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(For the record, my mother has never ingested a single Valium.)

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(That I am aware of.)

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(I took one pre-Lasik -- doctor's orders -- and it was pretty groovy.)

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It's equally a wonder that with natural talents at a wee age, I didn't become the next Diana Nyad or Taylor Swift.  Not sure what The Parental Unit was thinking.  Or not thinking.

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Moving right along . . . .

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I think you get the picture.  (Pun intended.)  Southampton is my happy place.

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You know when "experts" advise you to think of a serene and peaceful scene when under stress?  To not only picture yourself there but feel yourself there?  And then all of the stress will immediately exit your body on your next exhale?

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That happy place for me is <em>always</em> The Beach House in Southampton.

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What happened to The Beach House, you're wondering?  Don't worry.  We'll get there.

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First we need to rewind back to Michelle at the tender age of 8.

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My father -- who is the nicest and most selfless guy on the planet -- (<strong>I'm not kidding, you can read all about his gigantic heart here</strong> ) -- career changed from mechanical engineer to petroleum engineer during the oil boom.  You know what that meant, right?  The family moved to where the oil overflowedeth.

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Giddyup.

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He assured me that I would love Texas.  After all, our new house was located on Lancelot Drive, and there was no one in the world I loved more at that time than <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsSnNk0CSh0" target="_blank"><strong>Lancelot</strong>.</a>

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(35 years later I still have a thing for <strong><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39PuFOTjtk8" target="_blank">dark-haired men with accents.</a>  </strong>It's truly a wonder I haven't run off with one  Yet.)

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I hated Texas.

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(For the record, I love my father dearly.)

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The saving grace was that we returned to The Beach House each summer.

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So many of my favorite things today trace back to The Beach House.

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I heart Mimosas.  Not the cocktail, but the trees.  Because The Most Beautiful Tree in the History of My Life shaded the front yard of The Beach House.  My sister and I would collect the blossoms and crown Nana "Mimosa Queen".

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Yes, that was the summer that I made the unfortunate discovery of an evil potion called Sun In.  Moving right along again . . . .

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I heart blue hydrangeas.  Because they lined the front patio of The Beach House.

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Today, I have a fake one in my kitchen.  That's the best that I can do in Arizona.  Except for when they sell them at Trader Joe's and people stare at me because I start jumping up and down.

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And I heart sand dunes.  Because of the giant sand dune named Holmes Hill on Little Peconic Bay.  My all-time-fav photo of my father was taken on Holmes Hill.

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From The Beach House, you would walk three houses down the street and access a practically private beach with a view of Holmes Hill.

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I would often walk that beach before dinner by myself so that I could be alone with my thoughts and dream about....oh, I don't know...Lancelot probably.  (The knight, not the street.)

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One night at dusk, I looked into the water and saw a slithery glowing object.  It stopped me in my tracks.  An electric eel!

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I ran back to the house and breathlessly shared my discovery with my family.  No one believed me.

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I know what I saw.

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Moving right along (for the last time, I promise) . . . .

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The story of The Beach House has somewhat of a sad ending, my friends.  I'm not going to drag it out because I may get too emotional.

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Like all other good New Yorkers, Nana and Papa decided to retire in Florida.

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I never understood this.  I will never understand this.

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For the record, I adore and revere my Portuguese grandparents beyond belief.  But let me assure you, dear readers, that visiting a house on a gator-infested canal in Florida after growing up in The Beach House is highly anticlimactic.

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Luckily, my uncle swooped in and saved the day by buying the house.  He kept it for a good ten years or so.

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Until the red tide swept in and you couldn't swim in The Pond without contracting a nasty rash.

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As if rashes aren't obnoxious enough, the secret of The Hamptons boomed across Manhattan in the 80s.  Suddenly, there was traffic that rivaled LA and swarms of yuppy snobs with a sense of entitlement.  Our quiet and idyllic Beach House existed only in our storybook memories.

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In order to save his sanity (and shave an hour off his commute), Uncle Johnny sold The Beach House.  Real estate whiz that he is, UJ unearthed a treasure in a more down-to-earth and old-Southampton-of-yore-like location in Hampton Bays.

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These days, I try to return to my roots every other summer.

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