Sand Dollar

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I hold my breath as I unwrap the tissue in the Altoids tin. My prized sand dollar– a quarter-sized shell with a perfect starfish etched in its center, — has remained unscathed, having survived a bus trip from Boston to New York, several subway rides, and a flight from New York to Chicago.

I think that this is a harbinger of good luck to come. For two magical days, I breath in sea air at a small Maine guest house on the shores of the Kennebec River, Aaron’s Burr’s escape route of choice to Canada when accused of treason. Spinneys has been there for decades; it’s the kind of place that still has floral patterned sheets a shared bathroom, and a pumpkin colored cat named Buddy who hides under cars.

I squat near the shell beds at the water’s edge, panning for my sea treasures with my bare hands. I find the sand dollar the first morning out, thanks to a waitress named Ashley who said I should look in the swath of beach right before the old Coast Guard station, now converted to a bed and breakfast. My sand dollar is soon joined in my pocket by an oblong-shaped piece of sea glass, forest-green with letters impossibly to decipher on its ridged surface. These are all the more precious, since ecologically minded boaters are loath to toss bottles off the starboard deck these days.

Before joining my friend Caryl at breakfast, ( for lobster benedict), I am able to retrieve several mussel shells, its delft halves unfurled like butterfly wings, a razor clam shell, and several clam shells ringed in ochre and dusty brown. Delighted with my haul, I do a grapevine dance on the beach, my feet daring to play tag with waves of water that is chilled, despite the June heat.

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This place is thick with memories. Nearly a decade ago, my three kids and I had spent summers in this coastal village adrift in a Norman Rockwell like trance of fog and sand. Not much has changed. Our white-shingled lodge has not been replaced by a Holiday Inn, and hopeful wranglers still fish for stripers at the water’s edge. Kids still kayak in the still waters of the harbor at high tide, and scramble through the rust-stained walls of Fort Popham, hoping to catch a glimpse of a seal off the tower. Percy’s Store still sells fried dough on weekends, the Popham Library holds a story hour on Tuesdays.

I think that maybe Tom Wolfe had it wrong. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can go home again.

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A River Ran Through It