Seashells. I love them. Since I was a little kid living in Florida I've been fascinated by them. Found on the beach or bought in a shell shop - I wasn't picky. None of those shells survived the "way too many" moves but I've managed to look for seashells anytime I'm near a beach. Or a garage sale. People sell their souvenir shells - really. That's okay because I'm likely to buy them. Yesterday it occurred to me that I should sort the shells and put them in a container I found at a flea market. First I had to rinse them all off and pick out the leaves and stuff that had fallen into their bowls. They've been outside for awhile. Then I spread them out on a mesh top table to dry.
I'd like to just leave them here - they look cool. But that won't do.
I seem to be especially fond of the spiral ones.
I remember finding one of these pincushion shells on Sanibel Island at about age 8. I was thrilled. But I stepped on it later that day. Lots of tears. My mother asked me why I put it on the floor. As a grandmother of five I now know the answer is "I don't know!" delivered in a mournful wail.
Some of the shells are so dinky I had to set them on top of the sand dollars so they wouldn't fall through the mesh.
Here's the thing I bought at a flea market. Not sure what this was ever used for. Maybe a display for a bakery countertop? Not sure why I bought it either. Or what I was going to do with it. It took me two weeks to think up the seashell thing.
The finished shell holder.