I'm driving down the road and I hear "Clink ... kaaaa-linka ... clinky ....chinkachinka ...." Something is shifting around in the way back of my car, metal scraping against metal, and normally I should be concerned, perhaps even annoyed.
Instead, though, I am totally excited.
The noise is not coming from a bad exhaust system nor from bad rims nor from some loose mechanical error. The noise is coming from the two chairs I just packed into my car. Not just any chairs,though; my beach chairs.
That's right: I have put both of my beach chairs into my car, ready at a moment's notice for beach adventures. Weekends, after work ... anytime. It doesn't matter. Any time the mood strikes me or the weather cooperates, I can drive thirty minutes to the sandy shores of the North Atlantic. The beach chairs smack together in the back of my car, clapping for summer and for sand and for salty waves; clapping for me and for freedom and for the sunshine we all so desperately need.
I have my chairs; I'm ready.
