Feature Article

Banking on the Beach House
by Natalie June Reilly

The words from the automated voice response had become so familiar to me over the years that I hardly paid attention to them at all. The only thing that stuck to my scrambled mind was that there was a hold time of at least twenty minutes before I could speak to a bank representative. It was a Sunday. Why were there so many people on hold with the bank? Shouldn't they be at church or at a company picnic or something?

As I clung with white knuckles to the telephone for yet another date with an overdrawn checking account balance, I could feel my eyes begin to sting of tears. I’m sure my banking institution had begun to recognize the ring of my telephone, and yet they still answered. However; my checking account balance hardly afforded me the title of Preferred Customer.

I’m just a single mother trying her best to rub two silver nickels together every month and raise two young golden boys at the same time. It is possible, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. Clutching on to my checkbook I begin to feel my emotions unravel. So I retreat to a deep breath and close my eyes tight. I will try to escape for the next twenty minutes or so while I’m on hold. I’m so tired of feeling this financial hopelessness at the end of each month. And that’s not to say that I’m not grateful for what I have because I am so utterly grateful to have the stronghold of mine and my children’s home, health and happiness. It’s just that there comes a time in every single mom’s life when she sickens of the struggle to make ends meet and than on top of everything there is that pressure to make it appear seamless and effortless and it’s just not so.

There is so much behind the scenes mayhem when it comes to raising a family on your own, which in turn leads to a lot of crying in the rain for the sake of your children because children shouldn’t have such worries. I indulge myself in yet another deep breath to keep myself from weeping into an empty telephone with no one but the automated voice response to listen to my martyrdom and brooding. Times have changed.

Somehow technology is dictating to us that the warm sound of a human voice at the other end of the telephone is less significant than that of a cold computerized voice. What I wouldn’t have given for the human voice of reason to have answered the telephone and simply whispered; “It’ll be okay Natalie. How can I help you?” So instead I utter the words to myself in an attempt to gather myself together like an extra large load of laundry out of a hot, spinning dryer. “It’ll be okay Natalie. How can I help you?”

I begin to ponder the question, grasping for anything that’ll keep me in check. I try to imagine my most wonderful dream and suddenly it all comes into focus, a beautiful beach house along a stretch of white shores and blue waters as far as the eye can see and as deep as my youngest sons eyes. It is my beach house, the one from my dreams, and it is so familiar to me that I can almost breathe the salt air that surrounds it. The gray-blue paint is sea worn and the white trim is as bright as the clouds above.

There is a large, open deck that faces the sea where I have imagined myself so many days to be sitting in white wicker furniture and writing in nothing more formal than my cotton drawstring pajamas from dawn until sunset. There are flowerbeds filled with purple violets and white roses in bloom that send sweet scents into the mix. There are squawking seagulls and sea scouring sandpipers to keep me company on those quiet days. It is the life I have created for myself in my dreams, and I must remember to always take my reality with a grain of sea salt because “some day” is never closer as when you are dreaming of it.

My front door is white washed with a stained glass window that reflects the suns light like a kaleidoscope and the front entryway into my home is warm with welcome like my oldest sons smile and an open invitation for long walks along the beach and warm cups of conversation. I keep fresh flowers in every room along with photographs of my children, and there is music playing throughout the house to suit my mood. My living room is cozy with two soft, white, overstuffed yet understated sofas and hard, cherry wood floors cloaked with my favorite Persian rug. A sun-splashed round table rests ready for long bouts of Scrabble as well as intimate gatherings in front of glass curtain walls that captures the seascape. Sheer white curtains swirl in the breeze of an open window transporting sweet smells from the kitchen, though humble in size, colossal with rich tastes and the most flavorful conversation. Friends and family gather here to toast anything from a sandcastle they had built that day to the most extraordinary triumphs in life. I have two guest rooms.

The one room that faces the east is vulnerable to the sun kissed morning light, and the room that faces the west is prey to an entrancing moon. I keep these rooms an open invitation to all those I love, especially my two boys who visit me on weekends from college.

Of course they are only in elementary school now but that would explain as to why I am able to have white sofas in my “some day” living room. There is a winding staircase that leads to my bedroom… my sanctuary. In this room you will find all of my favorite things as well as photographs of my favorite people. My California King featherbed has an exquisite view of the ocean from my veranda. I like to leave the French doors open wide so as to hear the whispers of the tide to lovers young and old and I especially enjoy the laughter of the children on those warm summer days.

Chelsea my cat, my oldest and dearest friend, purrs as she sleeps upon the plump pillows of my chaise lounge on the veranda that sits next to my vast collection of sea shells and sea glass that I’ve collected over the years. She too can appreciate the quality of life that surrounds us now. For she has forgotten more than most will ever know of those wild and unruly days of single motherhood. She was witness to it all, as was she a loyal casualty to the chaos of living with two high spirited little boys and a frenetic mother balancing a hurricane of details.

With age she grew accustom to us, either that or she just became too old to be bothered by our antics, but all in all she has been a good friend to me through and through. She has trudged with me in the absolute abyss and she has climbed with me to the absolute summit of my life and always with quiet understanding. I hope that we can grow old together on this fine beach in the sweet calm of days to come because it is where I am at my best. Suddenly there was a voice, a soft and reassuring voice that spoke; “This is Michael. I’m so sorry for the long wait. How may I help you?” I was immediately transported on a fast horse back to the reality that is my life and temporarily torn from the dream of my “some day”. The truth was I wanted to thank Michael for the twenty minutes it took me to get myself in check with what was important to me in my “life’s checkbook”. I needed to do some accounting for my dreams so that I don’t wind up out of balance at the end of the day. There is hope and I know that there are people out there who think me crazy for believing in such extraordinary things like owning my own beach house. And I know that I do have my head in the clouds most of the time, but it’s better to float with your dreams than to give up and continue to have to float from pay day to pay day. I was grateful for those twenty minutes on hold. It gave me time to bounce back from a bounced check, but mostly it gave me time to bank on my beach house.

About the Author: Natalie June Reilly lives in Arizona. She is a single mother raising two little boys. She is a published author of the children's book "My Stick Family; Helping Children Cope with Divorce", a book she was inspired to write for her own children after her divorce. Her passion is writing, and her inspirations are her children and and how they fill her life with laughter and love. Her wish for all single mothers; "Be True to You".

Other articles by Natalie:
Every Lobster Has Its Day