By Barbara Remmem

Early morning, chilly air, car loaded with shovels, buckets, and burlap bags. The
caravan travels west, to Oyehut, sand dunes, and cold, wet sand.
Mom, dad, kids, grandparents, aunts and uncles, bare feet, rolled up pants. Shovels
in hand, digging deep, digging fast, catching our limits as quick as we can.
Back in the car, heading for home. Sister and I to the basement we go. Knife in
one hand, clam in the other, shucking the shells under cold flowing water. A penny
a piece dad promises to pay, visions of candy we’ll buy today.
Mom dips them in eggs, dips them in flour, into the hot oil and onto a platter.
Off to the table where everyone’s waiting.
Bellies are full, the table is cleared, mom grabs the chips and dad grabs the beer.
The grownups gather around the table again, Grandpa shuffles the cards for a
night of good cheer.