IT WAS, I know, a different time; more in my awareness than in any particular external essence. Then, as now, though cameras captured but part of the sights, and recorders only some of the sound. Memory, for one my age, isn't so much about bringing that old world back as it is bringing it back fully to mind. For our recollections are always faulty, but nonetheless precious for all their flaws. We lived near the water, in a place many travel to see, but much fewer actually live, as the storms are rather harrowing, and the sun merciless. I can still feel, these years later, the sand beneath my feet, and smell the waves, and hear the steady rhythmic sound of the surf, even though my eyes grow cloudy, and my heart heavier every year with grief. Nostalgia was originally a word for a disease, one believed to be fatal. For me, though, it is more life-affirming that it is destructive; it is in the continuity and variety of our lives that our stories have meaning -- even if only, primarily, to us.