In lieu of an abstract, below is the essay's first paragraph.
"The bed was hard, the room was hot, she lay there with her eyes closed. Nothing to do-or could do-except remember. Memory-God's gift to the old-what a crock! One of those laughable bromides, as if all memories were good ones. Ah but this one was. She drifted off to the beach; hot sand, the Jersey shore. Daddy's grandfather lived in New Jersey; that's why they had gone for a visit. She had a pail and a shovel. Tin, it was made of tin with fish painted on the side. No plastic in those days. How old was she then? Three? Maybe four. Must dig a deep hole, watch it fill with water. Watch the creatures scurry away when you dug. See the tiny crab skitter sideways, look at the black beetle; pick him up - she wasn't squeamish then-head back to the grownups where someone squealed and told her to throw it away. Who cares? Life is complete and beautiful; fulfilled by a hole in the sand. Adult voices carried by the summer haze, reach her ears."
The Angle: Vol. 1998
, Article 24.
Available at: https://fisherpub.sjfc.edu/angle/vol1998/iss1/24