I’d love for you to read my book in its entirety, either on Kindle (free) or paperback on Amazon. Here’s chapter 1 (which you can also read free on Amazon by turning the pages)
Chapter 1:
Monday, June 4, 2018, Memoir
Ask, and it will be given to you;
seek, and you will find;
knock, and it will be opened to you.
Matthew 7:7
Since I was a toddler, Mom and I have collected seashells.
Deposited in mesh bags, sandy pails, or sagging pants pockets, each treasured shell we find speaks a love language we share– that of discovery.
I’ve learned much from beachcombing. Each shell has a story to tell. I’ve kept a shell diary since I was eight: where and when each was discovered, the common and scientific name of each, and a cell phone picture. I have 332 shells in my collection. When I find a duplicate, I decide which one to keep, but I’ve discovered no two shells are exactly alike. I arrange and rearrange my collection. Mom has thousands; she sometimes uses them to make sculptures and art projects.
But the greater joy is the togetherness we share, mother and daughter.
Especially just before or just after storms, we’re on the beach. We taste the briny spray on our lips, and the wind-driven mist dampens our suntanned faces. Thundering waves, their powerful thwack against our legs, push us toward shore. We squeal in delight; seaweed wraps our legs.
We wait where the foam wets the compacted sand, That’s where we spot our trophies. The tide inches ever forward, marching in cadence toward the dunes. When it retreats, it draws everything back to itself.
We’re vigilant. We peer through the foam, seeking treasure. Then, seconds later, we struggle against the retreat, seaweed tickles our ankles as sand escapes from between our toes. The ebb flow sucks us toward the sea where we wait for wave seven, the largest, to thrust its power against us, sending us once more scurrying toward beach safety.
In that brief moment, before the next wave hits, we race to uncover shells the surf has brought us. chancing the chase, we rush into the fleeting foam to retrieve Atlantic’s bequests.
Awards are there, all right. A piece of broken coral, or a sand dollar–if we are lucky–plus other shells, familiar or rare, or delicate whelk-egg casings. Soon they’ll be hidden as high tide advances toward the dunes. The sea seizes sandcastles, dunes, turtle mounds, and shells, bearing all back to the depths. The rhythmic, predictable, perpetual tide ebbs and flows as it has since creation with no more, no less water on the planet as on that first day. But this morning, today, I welcome this piece of eternity.
Time is of the essence.
Risking damage to our bare feet, we rake our toes through the slimy, odorous seaweed, ripped from its roots. We hope to uncover hidden prizes. Little crabs scuttle, scamper, dart, or dig to escape our toes, running from giants. Sand fleas nibble. Jellyfish wait to leave their stinging marks. We step carefully.
Occasionally, we stoop to assist a beach-stranded fish desperate to return to its home, the sea. We give it a toss, telling it “Swim away, little fishy, swim away.” It’s a sprint against screaming seagulls and scurrying terns.
“Too bad,” we shout, “there goes breakfast!” The birds wail, flap their wings, even dive-bomb, then quickly seek another feast. They squawk in defeat this time.
Scanning the weather-beaten sand for trophies, we bend to select our prizes. A craggy oyster shell here, scallops in myriad colors there. With each step, we seek something new from the generous sea. Mom and I are rarely disappointed.
Poem
Monday, June 4, 2018
Chambered nautilus,
I long to find you
Washed up to my shore
But not until you’ve completed
Your destiny–
To hold, to nurture
To protect and to guide
As every good parent should.
May your offspring
Call you blessed too.
About the Author
