There were five of us. We were five cousins whose ages ranged from three to six or seven when we started going to my grandparents’ house for the summer. One of several uncles picked us up in a black van used to deliver wedding cakes and elaborate trays of cookies and pastries. We piled in and braced ourselves, backs against one side, feet reaching for the opposite side but not quite touching — our legs too short to secure a place. We tumbled around at  every curve and stop sign, our tangled bodies and shrieks making it a raucous game. Finally, the salt smell of the sea told us we were at the great sea wall, coasting down the curve of road that mimicked the curve of Fort Hale Park. We had arrived.

There were three ways to enter the house. We ignored the stairs to the front door. Sometimes we went through the ground-level door, through the summer kitchen and the all-purpose room, over the bridge, through the dining area, past the changing rooms and shower, and outside to the beach. Other times we ran up the wide stone steps on one side of the house, past the small kitchen garden, and onto the large porch. Whichever path we chose, wherever our race ended, Grandma was there, waiting for us, welcoming us.

There was a ritual: upstairs to a screened sleeping porch with rows of cots ( as summer progressed, other cousins would join us). Then we followed Grandma downstairs to a small bathroom. This was the bathroom we were allowed to use during the day. Many years have passed but I see it clearly: screened window open, drawn shades moving with slow breaths of breeze, pale green fixtures against black and white tile and a large pristine linen towel on a roller. My grandmother proceeded to demonstrate how we should wash our hands. After every movement—soaping, rinsing, soaping again and rinsing— she paused and looked at us, waiting for a nod that told her we understood. At last she dried her hands on the linen, turned to us, pointing at the wet but still spotless linen. Solemn nods all around.

We went through this exercise several times during the first week and several more times throughout the summer, usually after my grandmother saw the filthy cloth displayed on the roller.

There were always other adults who actually supervised meals and the obligatory hour of rest afterwards. These aunts and uncles watched while we played on the beach or swam to the raft or took the dory into the shallow water. At mid-morning my grandmother appeared in her bathing suit to “take the waters.” All splashing stopped as she walked stoically into the cold water, stood with water chest-high and bobbed up and down three times. Then she walked out of the water back to the changing room to shower and dress.

We saw her again at four o’clock in the afternoon. By then our lips were blue and our fingers nicely wrinkled. Grandma would call us to the blanket she had spread on the sand. Covered in towels and blankets, we clustered around her and drank steamed sweet milk flavored with a whisper of espresso and munched crusty bread spread with Welch’s grape jelly. I have spent a lifetime looking for that jelly, that bread, that taste. Apparently it is a gift only given to a very young child.

Grandma was there when we got ready for bed. We used a second-floor bathroom equipped with a large tub. Again, there were other adults who bathed us, made sure we brushed our teeth, and put out clean clothes for the next day. But my grandmother was the one who heard us say our prayers and my grandmother was the one who blessed us before she turned off the lights.