In the Good Old Summer Time

I've collected seashells for many years. Hard core, head down, ignore my family and friends and wander off for hours alone by the waters edge, kind of collecting. 

California, Mexico, Florida, Louisiana, The Outer Banks, Massachusetts, Connecticut and even a few lakes, rivers and streams. There always a souvenir that finds its way back home. 

I try to edit myself sometimes because it starts to look a little nuts. But that just makes me sad because I love to look at these and remember the epic day of shelling with my best friend on remote Portsmouth Island in the Outer Banks. 

Or the day my boys built a fire on the beach at sunset on Cape San Blas. 

Or the first year of our marriage living in New England and seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time. 

Or a day in Sanibel when there were so many shells you could hear them tumble in the surf.

Or finding big perfect sand dollars on the dunes on Shell Island and packing them so carefully so they would make the trip home. 

Or the early morning in Monterey we scooped up shells and sea glass with the colander from the rental house in the freezing Pacific. 

Or the time my husband jumped from a perfectly good boat into the clear blue water where we'd just seen a shark to retrieve a big perfect whelk shell for me on our 25th anniversary on Anna Maria Island. Now that's true love.

So, it's time to practice what I preach and live with what I love.  I love seashells.