Despite My Good Intentions, I’ve Returned From the Beach With More Seashells
I'm reaching critical mass with my shell collecting and am not sure of my next steps.
Photo: Kady Ruth Ashcraft Latest
I spent this past week in my favorite state in this wretched country: Florida. It’s an embarrassing truth to admit for a long list of reasons, most of which would get my writing banned in said state if I were to speak truthfully about them. But high on the list of reasons to love Florida are its beautiful beaches, which provide me with ample opportunity to live out my true calling in this life: collecting sea shells.
Over the last few days, I didn’t gaze out at the soothing Gulf Coast horizon or identify the red-beaked white birds pecking into the sand. Nor did I spend nearly enough time stretched out beneath the glorious not-too-hot March sun or bobbing around in the water. Instead, I worsened a lumbar sprain by traversing the shoreline bent in half, eyes trained on the ground, looking at seashells. And seashells I saw! Cockle shells that fan out like a pretty dish, speckled brown, white, and purple. Eroded conchs and fragmented whelk shells. Splintered calico scallops and shimmering, iridescent jingle shells. And I didn’t just see them. No! Based on a rubric imperceptible to both onlookers and my own beached-out brain, I pocketed a select few shells to bring home. This is where my problem begins.