Pruners, a Propane Torch, and a Peaceful Smile

Sunday, July 5, 2026

4:16 p.m.

Salisbury Beach, Massachusetts

The peaceful smile is fairly foreign to me. Much like a Northeastern beach, I rarely recognize its existence, and secondly, I’m normally preoccupied with seeking excitement further south, where leafy sandbars and desolate barrier islands feed my need for exploration and exhilaration. But I’m geographically isolated now. No more long stretches of uninhabited coast roads, sandy sidewalks, or sugar cane planted to the horizon. This is as far as I’ve ever been from the ocean; however, I’ve had my fair share of summer fun in the Southeast–sweaty nights in the Carolinas notwithstanding.

I-90 East through the Berkshires brought back memories of dreams from thoughts of trading the shoreline for Forest Service Road gravel and summiting somewhere along the upper stretch of the Appalachian Trail. That’s what was planned before I left. When menacing storm fronts encroach, though, I’m reminded of trying to make it to Asheville just as Helene arrived, unbeknownst to me. I don’t take unnecessary risks unless I can get something out of it. And besides, I have too much nervous energy to stay in one place. If I set up camp, I’d end up doing the car camping equivalent of rearranging furniture. Wasting time. Burning energy. Prolonging the fearfulness I have for sitting still.

Ordinarily, I make my way to the coast by puttering down county roads, looking for anywhere to take my tires off the tarmac, even if it means doubling the estimated time of arrival. Not this morning. Instead, I’m maneuvering through stop-and-go traffic on 495N around Boston, which originated from a 400-year-old woman driving a Florida-plated Toyota Camry. Heavy holiday traffic aside, I hit my target: Salisbury Beach, Massachusetts.  

Why Salisbury Beach? Well, if I had it in me, I could hop up the coast and visit the last two states I haven’t on the East Coast (New Hampshire and Maine) within an hour’s drive. Moreover, this area is surrounded by wildlife preserves, and my hope was it would be a little less crowded…a little more like what I’m used to finding. Fortunately, Salisbury State Park welcomed with free parking, a gift to the tired-and-taxed proletariat on America’s 250th anniversary.

The two-mile, beachgoer-packed, thin strip of sand wasn’t the oasis I wanted. After walking the entire beach from end to end, I hadn’t a place to sit and watch the crabs walk sideways. All I’ve seen are their claws strewn across the ground and gobbled by the surf. Only shorebirds and Boston-area families on this picturesque rocky coastline, and half of a sizeable Atlantic Surf Clam.

So, I’m sitting in the parking lot. This is my paradise. Sorry, Joni; it’s quieter here.

In any parking lot, there’s often some level of horror: dirty syringes, brawling panhandlers, passersby screaming at the sky, and other skulduggery and mischief, but everything seems hunky-dory here. There’s not even a prevailing odor of piss, or subsequent bottles, cans, jugs, or bags of it in the bushes. Regardless, there are some improvements that can be made, and I’m pretty stocked up to make situations a little better wherever I am.

First, I pruned back the invasive multiflora roses hanging into the parking spot. Then, I picked some poison ivy away from where I would nestle my rarely-used folding chair—there’s no curb on which to perch myself. Afterwards, I focused on fixing the sausage, egg, and pepper jack cheese English muffin I hastily bought from a gas station on the Taconic Parkway—far and away the worst breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had. But I believe a few shavings of SPAM and a propane torch in the back of a public parking lot can fix that.

With a quick processed meat flambé, I flumped into my chair, cracked open a cold, zesty drink, and finished off what is now the second-worst breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had. But, again, I’m prepared. Nothing a quick spliff can’t take care of.

Although I’ve ensconced myself in paved paradise, after an hour or so of reclining with my feet up on the back bumper, restlessness takes over. I wrestle with the urge to reorganize, to clean, to tidy, to act out my autonomic hyperfixation despite my relative executive dysfunction. I can’t plan the rest of my evening, but I damn sure can vacuum dust out of the Xterra’s plastic-lined and polyester-carpeted nooks and crannies.

No, I won’t acquiesce. I won’t sit here and deconstruct my internal contradictions in yet another seaside town. I’ve had enough of that from here to Key West.

I rose from my laze, planted my feet on the baking blacktop, walked gingerly to the front of my rig, and propped myself against the front-left quarter panel. It was just the right height for a standing bar table. A modicum of comfort I never realized was on the outside of the bottle from which I used to chug.

Now, with a drink (non-alcoholic) in one hand and a cigarette (hand-rolled) in the other, I looked across the sparsely populated parking lot, up over the dune grass, and into the sky, where whisps of cirrus clouds painted a soothing array of bright white stripes on a cerulean backdrop. And there it was; I caught myself—a peaceful smile. Not one forced from laughter, shock, or even incredible rage. My cheeks rising upward, seemingly unaffected by gravity—that of our nearest star—but also the obligations of life in general—or the management and control thereof.

Alas, my misaligned spirits, misappropriated efforts, and misunderstood modalities of the past for a future in a world that no longer exists—the penultimate chapter before we face off with the machines, or so they say…so it goes.

Nevertheless, my unfurrowed brow is hiding something other than dispelling the grief so long felt in the death of yesteryear. It’s the chance to be here, now, anytime, not living for my future self. The constant on which I can remain confident, all the while living a purpose of being tough, being kind, and being me, including embracing all my idiosyncrasies. And maybe, sometimes, I can treat myself a little better; like squatting back down into my chair to search for the cheapest motel room on Maine’s coast to start the present off right.