Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield

away or leave me at any time. Back in the fifties, most city kids traveled without their mothers.
    My brother and I set out in the ninety-degree heat. I felt like a wilted Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz ; the yellow brick road was the sandy sidewalk and bridge that led to Hunt’s Pier, the Oz of my childhood.
    â€œAre we there yet?” I asked Jimmy.
    He was the experienced one, trekking to the boardwalk, many times, with our older cousin, Jack.
    Once we crossed the bridge, I could see the boardwalk. It was still a long ways off, but the bright lights were coming into focus. We had walked about one and a half miles to Hunt’s Pier, the biggest amusement pier in Wildwood. Jimmy and I climbed the ramp that led to my Oz. I was so excited and reached into both pockets to find my allowance. In one of them, I discovered the shiny half-dollar my grandmother had given to me. I now had a whole dollar to buy tickets for the roller coaster and Ferris wheel, and maybe even something to eat. I pulled out the flaps of my pockets and plunk, plunk, onto the boardwalk, both half-dollars fell. I saw them drop between the boards, into the sand below. I started to cry. Then, my brother had an idea. . . .
    â€œI’ll bang my feet on the boardwalk, right here, where both half dollars fell,” he said. “You go down below and look for them in the sand.”
    We both realized that he would be breaking his word not to leave me, but this was a real emergency. I went below, under the boardwalk, and began searching. I could hear the stomping above and the clear roar of the ocean. When I looked up, I could see the bottom of my brother’s shoes and some other shoes all tramping on the boards. Boom, boom, boom ; others had joined in my quest for the lost money. I began sweeping the cool, damp sand, determined to find the two half-dollars.
    â€œI found them,” I shouted.
    Excited, I ran back up to where my brother was standing. There was a crowd cheering and clapping. I was so relieved, so proud, that I found the money. I put my grandmother’s shiny half-dollar back into my pocket. I decided to keep it as a found treasure. I gave my brother the other half-dollar to buy tickets for the Flyer, the biggest roller coaster I had ever seen. There was only enough time for that one ride. We had to start our journey back before it turned dark.
    Now, fifty years later, when I open my jewelry box and take out the half-dollar that’s tarnished with age, the cool, damp sand touches my fingers, the roar of the ocean returns, and the warm memories of my grandmother, like a gentle wave, roll into my mind. And the wind in my hair from the ride that I shared with my brother, on the big roller coaster in the Oz of my childhood dreams, touches my heart.
    Dolores Kozielski

Saturdays with Granddaddy
    Since I was old enough to walk my granddaddy would take me to the beach every Saturday morning so we could share the sunrise and collect the shells that would wash up along the shore. I felt very special that he chose me to spend this time with him. This became our tradition. As if it were custom, he always wore the same wide-brimmed straw hat, long Bermuda shorts, and a white T-shirt. Two years into our tradition, he bought me a smaller version of the same wide-brimmed straw hat. He said that every seashell collector had to have this hat.
    I had the nicest collection of shells. We made all kind of things (lamps, picture frames, mirrors) with the treasures we found at the beach. I’ll never forget the way the water would wash over my bare feet, and on its return to sea it seemed to want to take my lightweight body with it. One particular Saturday morning after the sun rose and the sky had turned unyielding blue, we had been combing the beach for about an hour when my granddaddy reached down and said, “Look at this beauty. This is what you call real treasure.”
    I rushed over to see what he had found. One look and I knew this was