Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange lane.


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The Beach "The Abandoned Beach House"

It was warm today, warm enough to justify going to the beach with Margaret. Wanted to spend some real time with her. But more than that I wanted her to feel normal. That I wasn't ashamed going out with her. Her skin grafts have settled well. I know she is self conscious about them, but I have gotten used to her new face.

I haven't been to a beach with anyone in years. I wasn't even thinking about going to that beach in particular. Then I remembered the old author ended up there. Have the clipping from the paper. One of the “fans” had sent it to me. I looked it up and it turned out that it was a lot closer than I thought. So we packed a few things and headed out, reaching the beach by mid afternoon. Was virtually no one there, which was probably for the best.

Margaret went to the beach while I collected our things. I found a place high up from the surf, centralized so we could explore a little. She loves rocks. I enjoyed watching her collect a few that caught her eye. While she was doing that I decided to check out the large abandoned beach house set far back closer to the grass. Used to keep chairs and such. It was quite old, and apparently only saw use for a very short amount of time between 1936 and 1941.

The paint was a dull yellow and flaking off. Birds constantly fluttered back and forth from nests they had placed under the overhangs. Smelled like old stone. Could smell the lake too. Most of it was boarded up, but one door was open, leading to the men's bathroom. Was self contained, and the was in a similar state of disrepair, though it clearly had been mildly kept attended to so visitors wouldn't piss on the side of the building.

We walked along the beach. The water was freezing. I laughed when she ended up getting wet after the surf surged up at her. A large part of the beach had breakers built into it. Made of concrete from some of the old factories that had been torn down. Old rebar is everywhere, sticking out the concrete. Found the place where the old author had disappeared. There was a plaque in place. Don't know why. People go missing all the time. Plaques are usually reserved for the dead, not the missing.

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