While ending our vacation when our grandchildren were less than ten years old, we were shopping for souvenirs to bring home to them.
Our trip had taken us to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico and thus the gift-souvenirs shop sported all sorts of nautical toys and trinkets.
It wasn’t too difficult to decide on a Buccaneer’s eye patch mask with a kid-size plastic sword for our grandson; and he was delighted to be able to be a pirate swashbuckler like Capt. Hook. This was easy, but what could we find for our granddaughter? It ought to be something a little girl would enjoy and something to remind her that Grandma and Grandpa had been to the sea shore. We found the options very limited. No childrens book, no soft water taffy, no picture postcards of downtown Biloxi or the casinos at Gulfport.
Then the idea fairy led us to a display of all sorts of sea shells, most of them too large to put in a suitcase and certainly not something that might delight a ten-year-old girl once she might have hauled them over to show-and-tell.
Maybe we should get another pirate kit. Finally in desperation and guessing that beyond her knowing she had been remembered with a gift, we purchased a little basket all wrapped in cellophane with a pink ribbon bow—chuck full of little and varied—you guessed it—sea shells.
It wasn’t too long after we came home and distributed the gifts that the other grandmother in a fit of pique let us know in no uncertain terms that she was the babysitter who had to collect and throw away all of those hand-sought—you guessed it—sea shells.
© 12 March 2018
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