Moroccan Sand

   From 1994 to 2001 I worked as the full charge bookkeeper for Geo Knight & Co Inc, a heat transfer press manufacturer.  One of our clients, Dave Roberts from West Yorkshire, England who owned an international sports clothing & equipment business would come to visit via the Concorde periodically.  I gave him a few guided tours of Cape Cod including of course, a ‘drive by’ the Kennedy compound.  I also located and connected Dave with his long lost high school ‘pen pal’ from Massachusetts with whom he hadn’t communicated in almost 30 years.  It was a delightfully romantic reunion for them. 

   Dave was going on a holiday to North Africa and wanted to repay my hospitality by bringing me a gift from Morocco.  I insisted that all I wanted was some sand from the beach for my collection.

 

   As a single working Mom of two, I did not have the opportunity to do much travelling.  My sons and I happily enjoyed many summer Sunday’s four-wheeling on Sandy Neck Beach, Cape Cod in my humble Subaru.  We would have hermit crab races in the tidal flats; hot dogs on the charcoal grill, Juicy Juice spiked with Canada Dry Ginger Ale from the ice filled picnic jug & admire the ‘monster trucks’ parade by.  I loved to run my fingers through the warm sand while I relaxed on the sunny beach.  I would gaze at a handful of sand cascading down and contemplate with curiosity, the different sands of the world. 

   On my bookcase shelf is a collection of clear glass jars [each one] containing sand brought back to me by vacationing family and friends.  A few ‘good sports’ had ‘spill’ accidents in their luggage, before we discovered ‘zip lock baggies’. 

I have been gifted sand from:  

Aruba; Shaw Resort Beach, Jamaica; 7 Mile Beach, Grand Cayman; Puerto Vallarta, MX  White Beach, Maui; Hawaii; Assateague & Chincoteague Islands, MD/VA; Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard; Hollywood Beach Florida; Daytona Beach Florida; Naples Beach Florida; Bahia Hondo Beach, Florida Keys; Newport Beach, California; Stinson Beach, California and Lincoln City, Oregon.

  I am fascinated by the varying textures & sizes of the grains of sand, the colours and even the smells of each cache of sand.  Every time I received my gift, I delighted in running my fingers through the sand and smelling it with my eyes closed as I imagined myself being to these places.

   Sure it must be difficult to envision the proper president & owner of a successful sports business in England gathering sand from Morocco into a large plastic bag to transport back to UK and then on to Massachusetts!  

   Being a respectable gentleman and figuring people would not believe he actually performed this gallant gesture, Dave had photographs taken of himself collecting the sand on Morocco Beach, as well as views of Atlas Mountain in the background of the beach.

   My ritual was no different when British Gentleman David Roberts brought me my gift of sand; except I was at work in the Geo Knight & Co Inc office.

   As Dave amusingly looked on, I blissfully carried my treasured bag of Moroccan sand from desk to desk sharing my delight with my co-workers and suggesting they touch & smell the sand too.  Even the CEO of Geo Knight & Co, [a gentleman - 20 years my senior] agreed to stick his nose into the bag and sniff the sand.

   In Mr Knight’s office, I said, among other things, I think it has a ‘salty-leathery’ smell.  Dave interjected, “There are camels running all over the beach.”  I quickly speculated the leathery smell may be from the camel’s hooves?  Dave gave a conjectured nod and replied, “And the camel dung!”

                        David Roberts collecting sand.

          Atlas Mountain North Africa in background of Morocco Beach 

                           My Subaru at Sandy Neck

              Monster Truck [Willy's Jeep] on Sandy Neck.

Winky, the Blue Jay & my Dad's air rifle.

Dedicated to an Irishman who encouraged this [very true] writing.

After high school graduation, I worked full time as a bookkeeper.  A year passed and it was my first official ‘vacation’; a whole week off with pay!  It was a warm & humid Monday a.m. that I had determined I would ‘sleep-in’ for a change, having no particular plans.  Alas, the birds were up early and making an unusually loud racket.  I angrily rose and complained to my Mom.  She said, “Pam, it’s your cat, Winky...they are taunting him again”.

Winky was a white and beige angora cat I rescued as a kitten from a neighbourhood farm.  He was missing his left eye (no eyeball-just the membrane) and had only half of a tail which was 90 degrees crooked from the connection to his spine.  He knew he was defective, but he was still a loving & spirited cat.  I need to mention my Mom had also rescued a nine year old Seal Point cross-eyed Siamese cat we named Chester.    

He was a wise old bloke with a nasty voice.  He pretty much kept to himself, except when he would use the bathroom toilet! Really! Squat on!

Out on our front lawn there stood a young Kentucky Coffeetree.  Half way up the tree and out on a thin limb was Winky, precariously bouncing up and down.  From the dining room window, I could see that there were at least two Blue Jays dive-bombing him from his blind side and pecking him on the head.  Mom explained that this was a morning ritual.  The Blue Jays would dive-bomb Winky on the ground, and then sit on a low branch of the tree to coax him up the tree and out on to a thin limb.

Livid at being rudely awakened on my first official ‘sleep-in’ day, I went out in my ‘baby doll’ pajamas!  At first the Jays tried to intimidate me!  I made an arm-waving boisterous fuss and then coaxed Winky down from his tree limb, as the Blue Jays sat perched on the utility wires watching. Grumbling, I went back to bed. 

This scenario repeated itself once more in the Kentucky Coffeetree out front.  Again, grumbling, I went back to bed.

Not too long after the fuss began for the third time from our back yard right outside my bedroom window!  The Jays had coaxed Winky up into the Weeping Willow tree and out onto a thin branch. There he sat, bobbing, again!  

My Dad was a gun enthusiast.  And a few years earlier, I had achieved high marksmanship with his 22-long-rifle at the Sportsmen’s Club of which he was president.  He had very strict rules about his firearms.  I told my Mom I wanted to use his air rifle to shoot at the Blue Jays, with NO pellet...just to discourage them with a rush of air.  She said, ‘O.K., only if NO PELLET; O.K. call Dad’.  I had to bother my father at work to get his permission to touch the air rifle.

 

Dad didn’t particularly like cats, except for Winky.  Dad had taught Winky how to ‘fetch’ by crinkling up the cellophane from his cigarette pack and tossing it.  Winky would cheerfully bring it back to Dad, including jumping up onto his lap with it and dropping it.

Needless to say, Dad said to me over the phone, “Put a pellet in it!” He was annoyed at being bothered at work, but even more annoyed to find out what was going on!  {Poor handicapped kitty being harassed by big bad Blue Jays!}  I argued the ‘pellet’ point briefly...but this was my Dad...I didn’t win any arguments with him!  “PUT A PELLET IN IT!  But don’t tell your mother.  And call me back.” he lumbered. 

Winky was bobbing out on a thin limb of the Weeping Willow. Unbeknownst to me, Chester was waiting and watching in a hiding place below.  My Mom was standing beside me as I took aim from my bedroom window.  And the noisiest Blue Jay had perched on a tree limb close to the trunk of the tree.  I made a perfect shot!  

The Jay spread his exquisite blue wings wide open and then dropped like a rock to the ground below.  Like a symphony of commotion, suddenly there were tens of birds all chirping and diving in an attempt to help the dead Blue Jay.  Chester wasted NO time to move in for the breakfast; snatching the Jay amidst the other birds and dashing off to a new hiding place.  My Mom was hitting me on my shoulder and back, yelling repeatedly, “YOU PUT A PELLET IN IT!”  Poor clueless Winky, I had to go out and coax him down.  

When I came out {still in my baby-doll pajamas} all of the birds became silent.  It was a guilt-filled eerie silence, for me.

Shamefully, I went in and called my Dad.  I was pleasantly surprised at the response I got from him, when I narrated the whole ugly scene to him.  He laughed! Something my Dad did not often do!  The best part for him was Chester’s breakfast.  When he came home that evening, I learned how to clean an air rifle.  I still have that air rifle, 43 years later.