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The<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11191" rel="attachment wp-att-11191"><img class="wp-image-11191 alignleft" title="Scanned Image 122690005" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690005-1024x1018.jpg" alt="" width="344" height="342" /></a> 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.  In the town of Mineola, to be exact.

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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.

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Except Mystic is in Connecticut.

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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 <a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/2010/10/11/to-be-continued/" target="_blank"><strong>aka Papa</strong></a> was a Portuguese immigrant who came to this country with nothing but his pride 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 through 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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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11195" rel="attachment wp-att-11195"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11195" title="Scanned Image 122690006" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690006-643x1024.jpg" alt="" width="270" height="430" /></a>

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Here is Kindergarten Michelle indulging in her newfound love of boats with her dad.

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I begged either my father and/or Papa to take me on boat rides daily.  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.

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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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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11196" rel="attachment wp-att-11196"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11196" title="Scanned Image 122690007" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690007-1007x1024.jpg" alt="" width="423" height="430" /></a>

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Here is Toddler Michelle showing her early athletic prowess and affinity for sport.  Not!  I assure you that the mini soccer match with Nana lasted a whopping two minutes before I ran screaming for my dollies.  Or to my Papa for a boat ride.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11181" rel="attachment wp-att-11181"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11181" title="Scanned Image 122690001" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690001-1024x815.jpg" alt="" width="430" height="342" /></a>

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And here 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 post.  :-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 a Valium once pre-Lasik -- doctor's orders -- and it was pretty groovy.)

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It's equally a wonder that with my natural talents at such 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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[caption id="attachment_11185" align="alignnone" width="430"]<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11185" rel="attachment wp-att-11185"><img class=" wp-image-11185   " title="Scanned Image 122690002" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690002-1024x824.jpg" alt="" width="430" height="346" /></a> 2nd grade Michelle transfixed by her neighbor's guitar playing and dreaming that one day she'll be the next Taylor Swift. Yes, I realize that Taylor Swift was not even a twinkle at this point, but I like to experiment with anachronism from time to time. Makes me feel very Shakespearean.[/caption]

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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 <em>feel</em> 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 -- <a href="http://snowdropfoundation.org/?page_id=102" target="_blank"><strong>who is the kindest and most selfless guy on the planet</strong> </a>-- (<strong>I'm not kidding, <a href="http://www.chevronhoustonmarathon.com/Donate/PersonalPage.cfm?MID=9047&amp;CRID=35&amp;CID=397" target="_blank">you can read even more about his gigantic heart here</a></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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Dad 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 miracle that 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 of today trace back to The Beach House.

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I ♥ 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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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11147" rel="attachment wp-att-11147"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11147" title="Scanned Image 122630002" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122630002-1024x350.jpg" alt="" width="819" height="280" /></a>

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This was the same summer that I made the unfortunate discovery of an evil potion called Sun In.  Can you detect the orange tint in my hair captured in a Kodak memory for all eternity?  Moving right along again . . . .

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I ♥ blue hydrangeas.  Because they lined the front patio of The Beach House.  On that patio we ate breakfast, lunch, dinner, put on theatrical productions, staged pretend weddings (dressed in Nana's wedding gown), and watched the blazing sun set over the Little Peconic.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11182" rel="attachment wp-att-11182"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11182" title="Scanned Image 122690003" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690003-1024x697.jpg" alt="" width="614" height="418" /></a>

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

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I ♥ sand dunes.  Because of the giant sand dune named Holmes Hill on Little Peconic Bay.

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And because my all-time-fav photo of my father was taken on Holmes Hill.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11187" rel="attachment wp-att-11187"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11187" title="Scanned Image 122690004" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Scanned-Image-122690004-686x1024.jpg" alt="" width="288" height="430" /></a>

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From The Beach House, you would walk three houses down the street and access a practically private beach with a panoramic view of the bay and 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 sand 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.  To this day, no one believes 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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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #0000ff;"><strong>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.</strong></span>

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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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If ANYONE can explain to me why New Yorkers are so enamored of Florida, please educate me in the comments section below.

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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 Beach House.  He kept it for a good ten years or so.

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<span style="font-size: medium; color: #ff0000;"><strong>Until the red tide swept in and you couldn't swim in The Pond without contracting a nasty rash.</strong></span>

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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.

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* moment of silence *

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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.  My uncle's pad is pretty killer.  I ♥ it, too.

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But The Beach House will always hold the most special place in my heart.  A summer visit would not be complete without a pilgrimage to The Beach House.

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For Playdate #34, Nana, Auntie I, Aunt Bonnie and I journeyed there.

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The Beach House looks much different today than it did all those years ago.

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<img class="alignnone  wp-image-11151" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/P8210074-1024x768.jpg" alt="" width="361" height="271" /><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11156" style="border-style: initial; border-color: initial; cursor: default; border-width: 0px;" title="Shampton2" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Shampton2-1005x1024.jpg" alt="" width="259" height="265" />

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And even though Nana couldn't wait for me in the front yard (as in the photo above right) because of pesky trespassing laws, she was able to watch me three doors down at the practically private beach.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11153" rel="attachment wp-att-11153"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11153" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/P8210077-768x1024.jpg" alt="" width="323" height="430" /></a>

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While I took a photo of Holmes Hill.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11150" rel="attachment wp-att-11150"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11150" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/P8210086-1024x768.jpg" alt="" width="401" height="301" /></a>

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And wondered what happened to the mountainous formation of rocks that I used to climb onto.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11152" rel="attachment wp-att-11152"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11152" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/P8210076-768x1024.jpg" alt="" width="301" height="401" /></a>

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And collected angel's toenails sea shells (as Nana has always called them).

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/?attachment_id=11154" rel="attachment wp-att-11154"><img class="alignnone  wp-image-11154" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/P8210079-1024x768.jpg" alt="" width="401" height="301" /></a>

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And secretly wished that I can someday return to The Beach House, swoop in with a windfall, and reclaim it for future memories.

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Where does your heart reside?  Please share in the comments section below.

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