The little girl was playing at the edge of the garden. She had decided, on this warm summer's afternoon, that she was going to be an archaeologist. Equipped with her beach bucket, a little plastic ... [+]
Amongst my mother-in-law's hoarded treasures, a rusted Normal Rockwell tin weighted down with--what? pebbles bits of glass green blue but mostly plain and clear seashells barnacle-crusted clam shells the sorts of things of which mothers say,"What are you going to do with those when you get them home? I'm not going to carry them for you." Now I spend my priceless time placing each into a jar considering whence it came. The neighbors' waterfront? Rialto Beach? Point no Point? The Oregon Coast? Rain patters on the attic window. One day my daughter will say, "Your great-grandfather's very own