beachcombing

My great uncle kept a house on the Oregon Coast.  For about a decade, we would trek out there during the summers and stay for about a week.  It was the highlight of every summer.  The Oregon Coast is a magical place, with rugged cliffs, wild pines, and cold, damp air.  Only there would you need warm clothing in August and be grateful for a cup of cocoa and a warm fire.  

While I hunted down book stores, two of my favorites are still in those coastal communities, my Nonny would be walking the beach.   He would wake hours before any of us even thought of consciousness, trolling the coast for precious agates, sand dollars, and shells.  We would bring home bags of them every summer, which my mom still has many of in the basement of my childhood house.  She uses them in decorating, filling shallow wide bowls with them, nestling candles in them, or leaving the perfect heart shaped rock on their dresser.

Over Christmas, Nonny allowed the rest of us to go with him.  We didn't go nearly as early as our Oregon summer days and the Atlantic doesn't offer agates like the Pacific does.  But we found shell after beautiful shell.  I loved watching my athletic mother leave us all in her trail as she walked gingerly over the wet sand.  I similarly loved witnessing the childlike enthusiasm of my father over each treasure he found.  I'm not sure if it's the result of him growing up in the desert or just his deep seeded love of the ocean, but he never grows tired of his combs.  

I brought home my own assortment of shells.  I even had a rock stashed in the pocket of that pink half-zip until about a month ago.  One day, I went for a walk.  When I tried to put my keys in the pocket, I found a shell waiting for me.  It was the perfect reminder of some wonderful days with my parents.