{"id":308,"date":"2019-03-03T20:20:27","date_gmt":"2019-03-04T01:20:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/?p=308"},"modified":"2019-03-03T20:20:33","modified_gmt":"2019-03-04T01:20:33","slug":"decade-late-sand-dollar-short","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/decade-late-sand-dollar-short\/","title":{"rendered":"DECADE LATE, SAND DOLLAR SHORT"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Donna\nDufresne<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s\nbeen years since I\u2019ve been to the beaches in Southern Maine. Perhaps even\ndecades, and more than half a century since I peddled sand in a bucket as a\nchild. We rarely went to the beach when I was growing up in the fifties &\nsixties. My mother didn\u2019t drive, and my father worked all the time trying to\npiece together a living to make ends meet. \nMy parents weren\u2019t really beach people to begin with. Didn\u2019t like the\ncrowds. Certainly didn\u2019t like the amusements and the riffraff that spilled out\nof the boardwalks in Salisbury or Revere. So, it was a rare occasion that I got\nto go to the beach until I was old enough to tag along with the neighbors or\nride my bike to Plum Island. But on those rare occasions that percolate from my\nearly memory, we would visit a long stretch of fine-grained sand and I would\nfind sand dollars bigger than silver dollars, and moon snails by the bucketful.\nThey would inevitably stew in a corner of my room until the stench drove my\nmother to toss it all in the garbage heap down by the brook.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\nseems there was a yearly pilgrimage to Old Orchard Beach with Great Aunt Rose,\nand an excursion with the Whittiers, who owned the farm where we lived. On\nthose occasions, there would be crabmeat sandwiches, potato salad, and tart\nplums picked up at one of the many farm stands along the way. No matter how\nhard I tried, I couldn\u2019t keep the grit of sand out of my mouth or my crotch. In\nthose early days of little tin beach pails and their matching shovels, I could\nunderstand why my parents didn\u2019t particularly like the beach. But oh \u2013 the sand\ndollars were worth the trouble.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Excursions\nto the beach were for picnics, not for sunbathing. My mother, who must have\nbeen very lonely, stuck out on the farm with a toddler and without a car,\nseemed to have an endless gift for gab. \nShe plied Aunt Rose and the Whittiers for tidbits of family lore and\nlegacy that might explain the moods of her dark horse husband. Had she been\nborn into a more educated class, she would have become a psychologist. Or a\ndetective, trying to unravel the mystery of why my father was the way he was,\neven though he wasn\u2019t much different from any other man of his time. At any\nrate, the bits and pieces I\u2019ve retained about family history on my father\u2019s\nside, have a peculiar musical backdrop. The cadence of waves crashing on the\nbeach, the clicking of tongues and shaking of heads to the tempo of the fading\nYankee vernacular of my childhood. Pretending to be asleep on the scratchy wool\nbeach blanket, or sprawled on the back seat of the car, I learned a lot about\nmy family. Things my mother certainly would not have wanted spread around town\nas she steadily climbed that pretentious ladder, grasping for dreams. Some of\nthose one-way conversations are still quite vivid in my memory:<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCousin\nPeggy\u2019s grandmother ran a cat house in Portland, Maine, and her mother killed\nherself by sticking her head in a gas oven,\u201d I heard her whisper when she\nthought I was asleep. I had images of a fading Victorian house with cats in\nevery window, and thought it must have been wonderful to live with all those\ncats.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aunt\nRose boasted that her mother was an \u201cIndian Princess\u201d from the Micmac Tribe,\nbut my mother would later whisper to my future sister-in-law, as we sat on\nCrane\u2019s Beach, that \u201cshe was really black\u201d. And didn\u2019t I tuck that little\ntidbit of information away as fuel for my righteous indignation for all things unjust?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\ndon\u2019t know why they sent him to work on the farm when he was only eight-years\nold,\u201d my mother prattled on to the backdrop of swishing waves, \u201cDr. Lee said\nHenry had a nervous breakdown when he lost his job. Then Bob was born with\nsomething wrong with his legs and had what they used to call fits. They must\nhave been seizures, because Dick remembers him writhing on the floor and having\nto put a stick in his mouth so he wouldn\u2019t bite his tongue. It must have been\nhard during the depression. I wouldn\u2019t know, because my father always had a\njob. It used to irk me that my mother took in so much of the family when they\ncouldn\u2019t find work. There was Uncle Barney, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Roy, Archie,\nJunior, and Georgie, my half-brother, and not one of them offered to pay room\nand board. Then, of course, when Aunt Hazel, my mother\u2019s sister up in Maine,\ndied of TB, we took in cousin Hazel who spent the first two years of her life\nin a sanatorium. All my mother did was cook and clean up after them all. I used\nto get so mad at them boys. Not one of them ever offered to do the dishes. But\nother than that, I didn\u2019t know anything about the Depression. My father would\ngo on business trips and always brought me back a present, or a pretty dress.\nOne time he brought me the most beautiful plaid coat with big black buttons.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My\nmother would prattle on about my father\u2019s family to puff herself up. When you\u2019re\nat the bottom of the pile, it\u2019s always helpful to point out someone who is\nbeneath you. She would often tell stories about the Depression and be the first\nto point out that \u201cDick\u2019s family had a hard time, though. Henry used to go to\nthe breadlines in Lawrence. I guess they couldn\u2019t take care of Dick and Bob at\nthe same time. First, they sent him to live with Grammy and Grampy Dunham. But\nthen Fred Whittier said he needed a boy to help around the farm, and offered to\ntake him in. They used to show up every Sunday and collect the money he\u2019d\nearned. Fred treated him like a son. At one point there was talk of adoption.\nWe\u2019d all be better off if our last name was Whittier\u2026\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The\nharsh sunburns and suffering the long car rides were worth every penny for the\ninformation I tucked away about my family. Of course, the sand dollars were\nalso part of the deal.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\nbaffles me that there aren\u2019t any sand dollars left. I have spent days combing\nWells and Ogunquit Beach, trying to find one. The broken remnants are mere\nshadows of the ones I found as a kid. The size of a dime, rather than a silver\ndollar. I know there are a gazillion people on the same mission as I, and they\nmight know the secret to finding a whole sand dollar.  But I\u2019ve stopped and chatted with many\ntreasure hunters, and not one of them had found one.  I don\u2019t think my memory is deluded. I\ndistinctly recall digging in the sand, or waddling along the water\u2019s edge and\nfinding sand dollars bigger than the palm of my hand.  On Hampton Beach, they were as white as snow.\nAt Rye, they were almost black, matching the shiny boulders, beached like\nwhales.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sand\ndollars aren\u2019t the only scarcity in the natural world.  My liberal sensibility wants to blame climate\nchange, which means you can blame Trump and Prewitt for waging war on the\nenvironment. After all, when your adaptation is so delicately fine-tuned to a\nspecific habitat, you succumb to the slightest change in temperature, acidity, and\npollution. Deregulating and eroding environmental protection laws is a slippery\nslope toward environmental disaster. I guess the people who voted with their\npocketbooks don\u2019t remember the rivers running blue or red depending on the dye\nin the mills, or raw sewage floating past you while your dad fly fished for the\nelusive trout. In fact, the beach seems eerily devoid of life, other than\nseagulls, sandpipers and an occasional plover. The crabs have been pushed out\nby a gentrified Japanese species which has taken over all the crabby\nneighborhoods in New England. Periwinkles dominate the gastropod world, and\nrarely do you see a whelk or moon snail. Slipper shells, which are\nhermaphrodites, have easily surpassed other populations with that quirky little\nhabit of changing sex for convenience. But the most heartbreaking victim brought\nto near extinction is the green sea urchin.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\nused to keep baskets full of them around the house to remind me of kayak\nexcursions off the coast of Port Clyde, where I would find piles of them tucked\nin the rocks and nestled in the blueberries on the islands. Unfortunately, my\nMini Schnauzers thought I had put those tantalizing snacks out for them,\nbecause they managed to get to every one of them, no matter how I tried to hide\nthem or how high up on a table or mantel. There was a lot of ingenuity,\nstanding on hind legs, and climbing on furniture to reach those odorous\nmorsels. They even managed to crush the spiny ones.  Gone are the beautiful sage green shells.\nGone the little Native American grass basket, a family treasure, which held\nthem close. So you can imagine my disappointment when I returned to Maine a few\nyears ago and couldn\u2019t find any sea urchins. Not one!  I crawled into spruce tangles on my hands and\nknees hoping to find one cushioned by reindeer lichen. I scoured the deep\ncrevices of the rocky shore. It was downright eerie. Not even a broken shell\ncould be found. It was as if they had suddenly disappeared from the face of the\nearth. Or worse, that they had never really existed.  I was determined to discover why the sea\nurchins had disappeared, and heart-broken to learn it was yet another symptom\nof the economic turn. When other fisheries dried up, Maine fishermen turned to\nthe Japanese and sushi market. Sea urchins became the next gold rush. In fact,\nthe demand was so great and the price so good, they were totally fished out\nwithin ten years.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

According\nto Marina Schauffler in her article Absence\nof life on Maine shoreline brings grief and hope for action<\/em>, sand dollars\nare not the only species rapidly disappearing. Periwinkles, those hardy and\nsomewhat invasive inhabitants of the tidal zone, are now washing up on the\nshore \u2013 their empty shells bleaching in the sun.  Mussel beds are abandoned, and one would be\nhard pressed to find a sea star close to shore. \nAlthough it seems as though it happened over night, the mass die-off of\nmarine life has been an accumulative effect of climate change for 30 \u2013 even 50\nyears. But the acceleration in the last ten years is alarming. It\u2019s not just\nthe marine life, but the very threshold on which everything depends. Extreme\nweather, fierce winter storms and beach erosion have put further stress on\ncoastal habitats.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sand\ndollars and sea urchins are not the only victims of climate change and erosion.\nWhen I was a child, a trip to the beach was both rare and sacred. The water was\nferociously cold, and there wasn\u2019t a jellyfish in sight. I was warned about the\nundertow, constantly (which I thought was an \u201cundertoad\u201d monster living in the\nwater). But the habitat was rich and fecund, not like the barren wasteland we\nfind today. And another climatic change has taken place.  There is a wall of silence when you walk down\na beach on a hot day in July. Although there may be throngs of people, the\nchatter and the gossip that so delighted me as a child, seems to have gone the\nway of the sand dollar. Rather than prattling on about some juicy tidbits from\nthe family past, mothers are glued to their cellphones, chatting via text. I\nsuppose they think they are protecting their children from inappropriate\ninformation. But I can guarantee there won\u2019t be one imaginative, creative mind\nraised in such a brood, and probably no future writers either.<\/strong>\n\n\n\n\n\n),Object(r.crea<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Donna Dufresne It\u2019s been years since I\u2019ve been to the beaches in Southern Maine. Perhaps even decades, and more than half a century since I peddled sand in a bucket as a child. We rarely went to the beach when I was growing up in the fifties & sixties. My mother didn\u2019t drive, and my … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “DECADE LATE, SAND DOLLAR SHORT”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-308","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-memoir","entry"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/paDBMs-4Y","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=308"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":309,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308\/revisions\/309"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=308"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=308"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=308"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}