Something is wrong with me. On these glorious autumn days, I am hopelessly drawn to the beach…South Beach, Fuller Street Beach, Bend-In-the-Road Beach (you can probably figure out how each one got its name).
It’s not the sand or the tides or the end-of-summer warmth that has sucked me in: it’s the wampum.
There, I admit it. I walk along, head down, eyes rotating all around me, searching for perfect bits of purple and white, the hacked up remnants of once-lovely quahog shells than have been bludgeoned by ravenous scavenger sea gulls and left to linger on the shore.
I have quite a collection now. I have also added poor-wampum-relations – sea glass (note the right ear in photo), oyster shells (left ear), and odd pieces of shells that have no form or real attraction other than that they’ve been polished as smooth as velvet by the waves (eyebrows, mouth).
So that’s my confession of the week: My wampum habit has been revealed. I have no idea what I am going to do with my buckets full of perfect specimens…other than to make these charming faces that have become my little friends.
I am having so much fun here, I guess it borders on ridiculous. Perhaps I should write a book instead.
Take comfort in the fact that in an earlier universe you’d be filthy rich with all that wampum.