Remember When… The Blue Wagon Knew the Way

“Sometimes the greatest inheritance isn’t a house or a bank account. Sometimes it’s a blue station wagon full of ordinary weekdays that quietly became the story of your childhood.”

When people ask me what it was like growing up in Virginia Beach, they usually expect me to start with the ocean.

Instead, I begin with a station wagon.

It was a blue Chevrolet Caprice station wagon—the kind with the wonderful backward-facing jump seat in the back that every child wanted to claim first. It wasn’t fancy, and I’m sure my parents never imagined that decades later it would become one of the strongest symbols of my childhood.

To them, it was simply the family car.

To me, it was freedom.

It carried our family all over Virginia Beach and beyond. It knew the way to church, to school, to grandparents’ houses, to camping trips, and to countless adventures. But every summer, there was one destination it seemed to know by heart.

Sandbridge.

Long before GPS, before smartphones, before every family vacation was photographed a thousand times, the Blue Wagon simply turned toward the ocean.

And we followed.

The Road to Summer

Growing up, summer wasn’t announced by the calendar.

It arrived the first morning my mother packed towels into the Blue Wagon and told my younger brother and me that we were going to the beach.

Those words had a kind of magic.

Within minutes, we’d be putting on our bathing suits, collecting our towels and loading Mom’s chair into the car for the 30-minute trip to the beach.

Then we’d pile inside.

Facing backward made the world look completely different. Back then, if you were in the jump seat, you’d be waving at cars behind and imagining adventures with every mile we left behind.

The Blue Wagon knew the way.

As neighborhoods disappeared in the distance, the landscape slowly changed. Houses gave way to open fields, marsh grasses swayed in the breeze, and the air itself seemed to change. Even before we caught our first glimpse of the ocean, we could smell it. We’d roll our windows down as soon as we got to our beachy destination – just to smell the ocean breeze.

That mixture of salt air, warm sunshine, and marshes still has the power to transport me back fifty years in an instant.

Memory doesn’t always begin with a photograph.

Sometimes it begins with a scent.

Before Sandbridge Changed

Today’s Sandbridge is beautiful, but it’s also much busier than the one I remember.

Back then, it still felt like a hidden treasure tucked away from the rest of Virginia Beach.

Little Island wasn’t the beautiful park visitors know today.

It was a parking lot.

A fishing pier.

And miles of beautiful Atlantic Ocean.

That was enough.

In fact, I think it was perfect.

We usually arrived around ten o’clock in the morning.

The fishermen were still there from their early-morning sea fishing activity.

Long before families spread towels across the sand, men and women stood quietly with surf rods planted in the beach, patiently watching the waves. Some had been there since sunrise.

As children, we didn’t appreciate the patience fishing required.

We were far too excited to get into the water.

But now, when I think back, I realize those fishermen were as much a part of the landscape as the dunes and the sea oats.

They belonged there.

By noon, umbrellas dotted the beach like bright wildflowers.

Children squealed as waves chased them toward the shore.

Parents called out reminders to reapply sunscreen.

Or at least…

Most parents did.

The Smell of Summer

If you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you probably remember that our relationship with the sun was a little different.

While other families were carefully spreading thick white zinc oxide across their noses, we were reaching for bottles of suntan oil.

Today we know much more about protecting our skin, and I’m thankful for that knowledge.

But there is one thing science can’t change.

The smell.

One whiff of Hawaiian Tropic or Bain de Soleil still sends me straight back to childhood.

It’s amazing how powerfully scent unlocks memory.

Suddenly I’m standing barefoot on warm sand.

The ocean breeze is lifting my hair.

The gulls are calling overhead.

My brother is already running toward the waves.

Mom is unfolding beach chairs.

Someone nearby is opening a bag of potato chips.

The fishing pier stretches into the Atlantic just as it always did.

For me, the smell of suntan oil will always smell like summer.

Tiny Treasures

One of my earliest Sandbridge memories happened long before I could possibly remember it myself.

I’ve heard the story so many times that it has become one of my own memories anyway.

I was about eighteen months old.

Like every curious toddler, I was fascinated by the tiny coquina clams that washed ashore with each wave.

I carefully collected several of them in my little hand.

Apparently they were treasures.

And I had no intention of letting them go.

After a wonderful day at the beach, we climbed back into the car for the drive home.

Somewhere along the way I fell asleep, still clutching my tiny collection.

After she’d unpacked the car, my mother began wondering where an awful smell was coming from.

She searched everywhere.

The cooler.

The towels.

The beach bag.

Nothing.

Eventually she discovered the source.

My tiny fist remained tightly closed.

Inside…

Were my beloved little clams.

Let’s just say they hadn’t survived the trip home.

Even now, that story makes me laugh.

Apparently I’ve always been a collector.

I’ve simply become a little more selective about what I bring home.

The Sweetest Stop of the Day

Leaving Sandbridge never meant the adventure was over.

The Blue Wagon still had one more tradition waiting.

On the road out of Sandbridge stood a little 7-Eleven.

We stopped every single time.

My choice never changed.

A Big Wheel.

A Big Gulp.

That combination tasted exactly like childhood.

Looking back, I’m convinced it wasn’t the snack itself that made it special.

It was the ritual.

Children thrive on traditions.

They tell us that life is predictable.

Safe.

Filled with little moments we can count on.

Every beach day ended the same way.

And I loved it.

Then we’d settle back into our seats for the drive home.

The windows were cracked open.

Salt still clung to our skin.

Our bathing suits were damp.

Sand somehow found its way into every corner of the car despite our best efforts.

My brother and I often fell asleep before we reached home.

Looking back now, I realize those quiet rides home may have been my mother’s favorite part of the day.

The children were happy.

The beach towels were piled in the back.

The day had been well spent.

Sometimes contentment looks remarkably ordinary.

The Roadside Farm Stands

There was another stop we often made before heading home.

Along the road were little roadside farm stands.

Nothing fancy.

Just local farmers selling what had been picked that morning.

Fresh tomatoes still warm from the sun.

Sweet corn.

Juicy cantaloupes.

Watermelons so heavy it took both hands to carry them.

Sometimes peaches.

Sometimes beans.

Whatever was in season.

Long before anyone talked about shopping local or farm-to-table living, that’s simply how people bought produce.

Those roadside stands were part of summer.

The tomatoes tasted like tomatoes.

The watermelon dripped down your arms.

The cantaloupe perfumed the whole kitchen.

Looking back, I realize my mother wasn’t just buying groceries.

She was teaching us the rhythm of the seasons.

Another Favorite Beach

Not every beach day was spent at Sandbridge.

When my aunt and cousins came along, we often headed to Chic’s Beach.

Back then, it was another wonderfully quiet place.

The Chesapeake Bay offered calmer water, perfect for families.

We splashed.

Collected shells.

Built castles.

And laughed until the day slipped quietly into evening.

As children, we thought every family spent their summers this way.

Only later did I realize what a gift those ordinary days had been.

Returning as Newlyweds

Years passed.

Childhood gave way to adulthood.

Then one day my husband and I found ourselves returning to another favorite place.

We spent part of our honeymoon at Seashore State Park.

Today it’s known as First Landing State Park.

Walking those trails together felt wonderfully familiar.

The towering pines.

The cypress swamps.

The wooden boardwalks.

The quiet beauty of the maritime forest.

Then, just beyond the trees, the Chesapeake Bay.

Unlike the Atlantic beaches of my childhood, these waters were gentle.

Instead of crashing surf, there were slow waves and enormous ships silently making their way toward Hampton Roads.

It remains one of my favorite places in Virginia.

Perhaps because it reminds me that every season of life deserves beautiful places.

What the Blue Wagon Really Carried

Looking back now, I realize the Blue Wagon carried much more than beach towels and picnic lunches.

It carried a family.

It carried conversations that seemed ordinary at the time.

It carried sleepy children home after long summer days.

It carried fresh tomatoes from roadside farm stands.

It carried sandy bathing suits.

It carried dreams.

Most of all, it carried memories we didn’t know we were making.

My mother wasn’t trying to create nostalgia.

She was simply living faithfully.

One day at a time.

One beach trip at a time.

One family tradition at a time.

Today, Sandbridge has changed.

Little Island has grown.

The old 7-Eleven is no longer there.

The Blue Wagon is long gone.

But every now and then, when I catch the scent of suntan oil or pass a roadside farm stand piled high with tomatoes and watermelon, I’m transported back to that blue station wagon headed toward the ocean.

For just a moment, I can almost hear the gulls.

I can feel warm sand beneath my feet.

I can taste a Big Wheel and a cold Big Gulp after a long day at the beach.

And I can see my mother smiling as she steers us toward home.

If someone offered me the chance to take one more ride in that old Blue Wagon, I’d say yes before they finished asking.

Not because I need another trip to the beach.

But because I’d love one more ordinary beach trip with the people who made those places feel like home.

From the Porch

As we grow older, we often discover that the things we miss most aren’t the grand vacations or the expensive adventures.

They’re the familiar roads.

The family traditions.

The little convenience store that always marked the end of a perfect day.

The roadside produce stand.

The smell of salt air drifting through an open car window.

The old station wagon that seemed to know the way before we did.

We spend our lives looking for extraordinary moments, only to discover that the memories we treasure most were quietly hidden inside ordinary Saturdays all along.

The Blue Wagon didn’t just carry our family through Virginia Beach.

It carried us through a childhood.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

“We are living tomorrow’s memories today.”