A Small Memory.

There were more than just caverns of decrepit arcade games at The Cliff House -- although that's what I remember best. There was also a row of gift shops. And fancy restaurants (OK, at least one) we couldn't afford. Some of the shops smelt of incense and featured head shop fare, but one was full of seashells. transported by the sight and smell of the Pacific outside, I chose an utterly impractical present to take back to Cindy Sanderson -- an exquisitely delicate spiral shell, 10 or 11" long. (A little like the one on the right in this Weston photo.)

 

It crept from spirea nipponica white to opalescent pink in its inner folds. (Ah, below, apparently, is another photo by Weston on the same theme.)

One of the most delicate shells I'd ever seen, it was absurd to think we could transport it back to Kentucky in one piece. I wrapped it thoroughly in pages of the San Francisco Chronicle and wedged it into a shoebox and shoved it way back under the jumpseat on the left, where it might possibly be out of danger from. . . well, whatever there was ahead on the road.

When we got home and unpacked, I found it. Unchipped. Perfect.

I think she liked it.

I wish she were still around to ask. Rest in peace, CJS.