My mom & dad lived in Florida for part of the GDI, when my older brother was little. There are pictures, I will have you know, of her in a two-piece sarong, complete with long, dark wavy curls down one side, holding his hand and walking on the beach. My dad worked a construction job, but hey, he had work. Even then.
She took up jewelry making out of shells, so the years that we’d go down—years later, during their snow bird period, that we would go shelling and go to the Shell Factory, which has more shells than King Fahd has wives.
She taught all of us kids how to get good shells when out shelling and make stuff out of them. All kinds of stuff. She had learned how to sell what she’d made.
One time, we were at Captiva, where Sanibel and Captiva meet, right after a big storm. There were the most beautiful, nearly perfect shells piled high on the beach after that storm. My, we had things and shells and sacks and pockets and hats and whatall stuffed with shells.
So, we went home, boiled ‘em up, cleaned ‘em out (and listened for the salty, grey-blue Gulf surf you could hear from some of them), soaked ‘em in 1:1 lighter fluid & baby oil, and made up Florida lamps & soap dishes and living room doo dads and wind chimes and jewelry. It was an event. Still have some of those shells. We all do.
But the best is still that early picture of her in her Yvonne DeCarlo prime on the beach in a two-piece sarong and long waves and waves of curls—not to mention her legs that really were famous in 3 counties—smiling coyly at my Errol Flynn lookalike dad back in the camera’s eye and snapping the black and white. He, no doubt got an idea about who the next name in our family ought to be from that now wrinkled and much handled picture, my dad, who was quite dashing in his heyday.
Boots - that is a mighty fine memory. I’m glad I mentioned the sea shells.