Alabama

When I was younger, between 5-8, my grandparents became snow-birds. They live in rural Wisconsin during the summer and move to the south during the winter months to get away from the cold. In the beginning they rented condos for a few months in different southern states like Mississippi, Florida, and Alabama.

During winter vacation my family would down and visit. The condo was always on or near a beach. Grandma, my sister, my mom, and I would all get up early to go seashell hunting. You had to go early because otherwise the early morning beach walkers would get all the good ones.

One morning we happened upon a muddier beach with lots of big shells. The kind that spiral around on the side and look like small conch shells. This was a great find. Usually we found them in pieces or broken apart, never whole like these.

After searching for the best ones around we returned home and left the shells on the balcony table to dry in the sun. A few hours later when we went out to inspect the shells there was a special surprise waiting for us. One of the shells had still been inhabited and the poor crab had tried to crawl out and back to safety away from the sun. He had gotten about halfway across the table before he had died and dried out to a crisp.

I was horrified. Since then collecting shells has never brought the same joy it once did.