The broken shells, especially these which, I think [I know my profound ignorance about sea creatures] are whelks, always fascinate me with their beautiful spiral structure and the pink-coral-orange interiors. I can't resist picking them up and walking down the beach with the beautiful ones in my hands. Only at the last minute do I come to my senses and remember I have lined my books shelves with them already and as they got drier over the winter they rained small puddles of sand around themselves. So I leave the latest find on a post beside the beach path for those who are more rushed to find and perhaps wonder at, if only briefly. [I do not have great confidence in my fellow humans, most are so distracted by things they find more important than tiny bit of perfection.]
The season is winding down and we are all aware of it. Soon the tourists will mostly have gone home and the small parking lot near my favorite beach will have space for me to park in the middle of the day; I can take a chair, a granola bar and a bottle of water along with my book and read in peace for a while. The weather will remain beautiful through most of September, barring nasty wind and rain from hurricanes roaring up the Atlantic coast.
All people in the higher number decades talk about time flying faster for us. Strange how that happens as many of us, I speak for myself mainly, actually have more time for enjoying, fewer commitments, less hustle and bustle. Yet the time flies. Is ice cream more wonderful because you can't dawdle too much while eating it because it will melt? Does anyone think about that except a septuagenarian? Or does everyone else take the ice cream for granted -- there'll always be another summer? Well, not ALWAYS ... as Hamlet says, "ah, there's the rub."
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