I have sand from many islands–St. Tomas and St. Maarten; Aruba and Antigua; Jamaica, and Bahamas; so many more. There’s pebbley sand from Villefranche, the fine sand of Anguilla, and sand from the bottom of the Mediterranean off the coast of Capri. Sand from Walden Pond in Massachusetts, and Muskegon on Lake Michigan. I have sea-washed pebbles from Africa, Italy, France and Spain; Precambrian quartz from North Carolina. Sand from Ireland and Maine that you can’t tell apart without the labels on their glass containers. I have volcanic sand from Guatemala, and Hawaii. Red sand from Prince Edward Island. White sand from Fort Meyers Beach in Florida. Pink sand from Bermuda. Black sand from Maine and Washington.
And seashells. So many seashells. And prehistoric shark teeth, some the size of a baby tooth, others as big as my thumb. I have ocean-going pods called Sea Hearts, in a jar there on my shelf.
In my loft, in my log house, on the river, in the woods, I have 118 beaches, some sent or brought home to me by friends and family. They’re memories of days spent waterside. Mine. Someone else’s. Someone who sat on a beach and thought of me, who gathered a handful up in a ziploc bag or empty water bottle, and carried it home.
These little glass tubes and jars make me happier than one might imagine such things could. I look up from my computer, and there they are. Memories and love and sand.
Modesty Is For Suckers 