Neptune's Gift

The jar of seashells sat on a shelf in the corner of my living room. It gathered dust now, but once it was considered one of my most prized possessions.  I had purchased it long ago, from a tiny antique shop nestled among towering buildings in the city.  In one of my daily shopping forages for treasures, I happened upon the quaint storefront and decided to browse.  I remember the shopkeeper and her cat because they appeared to have lived in another era.  The shells reminded me of glorious childhood days spent at the shore.  Happy days.  Days of a life gone far away, that were irretrievable.  Happiness lost forever. 

In the early 1940's, I was a child adored and doted upon by my parents in that time long ago.  Precocious and encouraged to be so, I basked in their undivided attention. We lived at the ocean's edge in Northwest Florida, with beauty surrounding us.  Sand crabs were often our uninvited house guests.  They scurried in through the open patio doors when we weren't looking!  My mother would calmly sweep them back outside again when she discovered their intrusions.  My father would laugh.  It was paradise. 

Walks along the beach yielded many shells.  I collected them in my sand buckets.  These walks also generated lessons on the types of shells and the creatures that lived in them.  Occasionally, I found gastropods, like king's crown, or fighting conch.  These were special treasures. Often, my bounty was filled with angel's wings, or calico scallops or broad rimmed carditas.  No matter,  I took gladly whatever the sea gave me.  My father would say, "Mary Ruth, those are gifts from Neptune! Special ones, for my darling little girl!"

My father was a Navy man! He spent more time at sea than at home.  My mother and I were thrilled when we received the letters saying that he would be returning to his "home port" for a while.  We looked forward to the day when he would be with us forever.  My mother was sad each time he went back to sea.  After a while, she would smile again.  Her smiles were so lovely!  Her face looked like an angel when she smiled.  She actually glowed with happiness.

One day in early December, a big black car drove up to our front door.  The occupants wore uniforms much like the ones that my Dad wore.  They rang the bell.  My mother, looking like a movie star, smiled as she opened the door.  That was the last time I remember her smiling.  They held in their hands a telegram.  It began: 
"We regret to inform you that.."

My mother crumpled.  Uncontrollable tears ran down her beautiful face.  Not understanding what had happened, I was frightened.  Mother couldn't form the words just yet to tell me that my father had been killed.  He was aboard ship, in a harbor on a distant tropical island.  He was preparing for another day of routine duty that early morning, as the first bombs dropped in a cowardly attack.  I overheard this later from relatives.
 
My father was dead. No more would he take me for long walks.  No more would he tease my mother and play games and read stories to me when he was at home.  I would never see him again. 

Mother walked around in a daze.  She seemed as lifeless as one of the shells in my collection.  Her inner glow was gone.  She never wanted to do the things she had gladly tackled before my father died.  The housework was neglected.  Meals became mostly bread and butter or whatever I could find in the ice box.

A month after the funeral services for my father, I woke to silence in the house.  I was only eight years old, but I knew instantly that something was not right.  I called to my Mother.  There was no answer.  Her bedroom door was slightly ajar. It creaked when I pushed on it.  Mother's body lay next to a bottle of pills.  A note with my name written on it was on her pillow. 

It was my mother's wish that I live with my Aunt Ann.  I left just after the funeral service. I was put on an airplane and flown thousands of miles away to a farm in Minnesota.  It was like living on Mars.  Such a different place, it was quite unlike my home.  I was not allowed to bring anything of my former life except a scant few pieces of clothing.  Most of my things wouldn't adapt well to the different climate, and there wasn't room, or so I was told, for frivolous sentimental things to be dragged across the continent. 

At night, I missed the sound of the waves lulling me to sleep.  I didn't know then, that it would be a lifetime before I heard that sound again.  Life, sometimes has a funny way of getting between you and the things that you desire, and that turned out to be the case with me.
 
Living on the farm was foreign to me.  Chores were also unfamiliar.  It was a harsh reality to my previous carefree days spent near my father's Naval base. We were up before daylight each morning.  Animals must be fed, cows must be milked and eggs must be gathered before we could have breakfast.  My Aunt was always busy.  Busy with the farm work and her church work and busy with her housework.  She had no small children.  Her brood of seven were grown and on their own.  She was too busy to nurture a small girl of eight whose entire world had abruptly come to an end.

I grew up and as soon as I could, I ran away.  It cost a great portion of my savings to purchase the train ticket to New York.  I never returned to Minnesota.  Indian summer was almost over.  The leaves were changing, and I prayed that I would be changing, too.  I found a YWCA where I could stay, and began searching for work.  In 1949, I found little that I was qualified to do, but I was able to impress the owner of a deli down the street to allow me to work in the kitchen prepping the food. 

Eventually, I saved enough to put myself through secretarial school.  I found a job that paid good in the standards of which I had become accustomed.  I moved into an efficiency apartment three flights up in an apartment building.  The hours were long and the benefits were short, but I managed.  I had been in New York for ten years, now.  Alone and unloved, I went home each night to my dull little apartment.  I saved my pennies, dimes and nickels and opened a checking account.  At my local branch bank, I met a man who worked as a teller.  He seemed nice, and his eyes reminded me of my father's soft green ones.  We began "going out", and found that we enjoyed spending time together.  Six months later, we married.

Our marriage was golden.  After many troubling years since the loss of my parents, I could finally feel safe and secure again.  I became pregnant, and my husband insisted that I stay at home to raise our family.  He had gotten a promotion at the bank and we could afford to live on one income. 

The twins were born on a blindingly bright July afternoon.  It was hot!  We returned to our flat, content in our world.  Happiness had returned once more.  The next few years were a blur of excitement!  The boys grew so quickly. We were more comfortable financially than we had ever been.  My husband had made some investments over the years that had proven very lucrative.  His career had advanced to the point that he was the CEO in the First Manhattan Bank and Trust.  Quite impressive for a man who had his beginnings as a teller! 

On our thirtieth wedding anniversary, my husband told me to pack my bags for a surprise trip.  He said that it would be to a warm place, and casual clothing would be needed.  I'll admit the mystery was unlike him!  We boarded the plane in the dismal cold of New York's frigid winter, to step off into radiant sunshine.  A rental car was waiting for us at the airport.  I asked a few questions about where we were going, but he only smiled and said, "You'll see!"

We drove along the highway that suddenly gave way to beautiful expanses of coastline!  The ocean!  Yes, I had seen it a few times since my childhood, usually on my way to and from somewhere.  But, even with my husband's successful career, most of our time had been put into making a home and raising our children.  Vacations were usually limited to places within driving distances.  He could have been deemed a workaholic, even in those days.

I rolled down my window to breathe in the salty smell of the sea.  Memories of my childhood surfaced, slowly at first, then with a flood of thoughts about my parents!  We stopped at a charming local restaurant on the water for dinner.  It was early afternoon, but we were famished.  Appetite sated, we climbed back into our car, and drove another short distance.

When he pulled into the driveway of the cottage, I immediately recognized my first home!  Though many years had passed, I had come back to the place where I was a child—that place filled with so many wonderful memories that had been buried beneath harsh winters and life!  The rays of the afternoon sun lit the windows with hues of yellows and oranges.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.

How?  How was he able to find it?  How did he manage to get the owners to allow us to visit?  Was this a vacation rental?  So many questions filled my head!  They would have to wait!  He handed me the key, and I ran to open the door.  Inside, the rooms  were lovely.  The furnishings were of the latest style, and reflected a decorator's touch.  It was then that I noticed the paintings,  wonderful pastels of a smiling familiar child with two adoring parents alongside her.  They were of me!  Still more questions mixed with the salty tears! 

My thoughtful, considerate mate had really done his research.  Although he had kept this as a special surprise, he explained that when my aunt had died, a detective had contacted him.  I was listed in her will.  Some delving into family papers yielded information about an inheritance from my parents.  Their estate had never been sold, and had been maintained by a trust fund since their deaths nearly 50 years ago.The cottage was mine!  It had been waiting for me to return. Home! 

Included in my aunt's papers had been a few snapshots of my parents and myself.  The detective had given them to my husband.  He wanted to add a piece of my mother and father to "my surprise".  He found a photographer who specialized in the prints that now were hanging on the walls. My husband explained further that he had been thinking about retirement, and wanted to know if this might be the place for us to spend those special, golden years together.  How could I say no?  My heart was as light as the ghost child of years past when her father would return from months at sea.  This was the most perfect day of my entire life.  Or, at least, since childhood's perfection.

We walked onto the sand. The sun was sinking into a blue horizon backlit by stage lights of pinks and lavenders and oranges.  I looked down to find a perfect Junonia shell at my feet.  A homecoming gift from Neptune himself.  I was truly happy!


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