Sand Dollar Memories

Every time we walk along a beach
some ancient urge disturbs us
so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments
or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers
like the homesick refugees of a long war.
Loren Eiseley

As we walked the in the sand our first night at the beach, I noticed broken sand dollars dotting the sand everywhere I looked. Beautiful, large sand dollars had washed onto the beach, but must have broken as the tide tried to sweep them back out to the sea.

As we enjoyed the evening air and the mixture of melancholy and inspiration that only the seashore brings, I was taken back to a time when I was a girl, visiting the same coast.

I had forgotten how enthralled I had been with collecting sea shells, and how I considered finding a sand dollar the best treasure of all.

Every day that summer years ago, I'd scan the printed tides tables for the precise hour and minute of low tide, and then force my grandparents to adjust our plans so that I could be on the beach, searching for treasures.

But I don't remember seeing so many broken sand dollars when I was there as a child. I only remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful treasures.

Like those days long ago, on each day of this recent vacation I woke my two youngest boys at dawn's low tide. We'd find our flip flops, don our hats, and tiptoe out of our hotel room to scour the beach like paupers searching for food.

Our morning ritual made me wistful about my children and the memories they'll someday have - not only about this vacation - but their childhood memories in general. It occurred to me that while there are many childhood experiences we adults vow we'll never allow our own children to experience, there are other things that we feel our children must experience or somehow their childhood days just won't be complete.

I found that ironic as I walked along the foggy beach each morning with my boys zig-zagging beside me in the sand.

The funny thing is, I wasn't a very happy child. As a kid I encountered some fairly earth-shattering experiences (I mention this only to illustrate a point) and yet I have a lot of trouble remembering details about any one of those bad things that happened to me. Just as I don't remember so many broken sand dollars along the shore.

But if asked about my childhood days at the beach, a trip to visit my favorite aunt in Madrid, or treasured trips to the movies with my older cousins, I remember it all with great detail and with sincere passion.

I hope my children remember our vacation and our mornings together searching for sand dollars.

I hope they remember the closeness we shared those mornings - and not the complaining they did when I woke them too early.

I hope they remember the excitement of looking to see if anyone else was out there as early - and not my grousing about putting on hats.

I hope they remember the aroma of the morning sea air and the feel of the cold, wet sand under their feet.

I hope they remember a mother who scooped them up and embraced them out there next to the sea, holding them a little too tight and a little too long.

I hope they remember searching the beach at low tide and coming away with beautiful sand dollars, and I hope they too forget seeing the broken ones along the way.