Unseasonable but true: In the summer, as kids, my cousins and I spent a lot of time at our grandparents� beach house, mitigating our boredom by playing in the waves or, when the surf was too big, walking along the shore, looking for beach glass. The waves churning through large rocks just offshore meant that the pieces of glass we found were tiny. The difficulty of seeing the glints of green and brown amidst the pebbles lent the task of finding them a competitive fervor. Still, we had a lot of free time, and as a result, found a lot of glass, which we then brought home and stored in jars, where it sat, largely forgotten. We got tired of it and brought it back to the beach house, where it would languish, unloved. Common and plentiful, you�d find stray glass on windowsills, in ashtrays, tossed in with a jar of marbles, or at the bottom of the toy chest.

Years after we�d all stopped gathering for summers at the beach house, a small jar of beach glass that had long rested on a ledge in the living room, went missing. It was, as I mentioned, a small jar�I recall it as being about four inches high, with an ill-fitting, mismatched plastic stopper, and maybe two inches in diameter. It sat next to a mason jar packed with glass, near shelves where more beach glass sat, unloved, in jars, and the furor that surrounded its disappearance surprised me. There were several theories about who might have taken it. My grandmother believed it had been stolen by a girlfriend my cousin Dan had brought to the house one weekend. �Now, why would she want to take that?� my grandmother asked, shaking her head. �That jar had some red pieces in it!� Red being the rarest of the colors, followed by blue. I don�t recall there being any red pieces in the jar, but I shook my head along with her, as she repeated, �I just don�t know why she�d want to take something like that!� It was a fair question. There were much more valuable things in the house to catch a felonious eye�sterling flatware, boxes of jewelry�and yet only the little jar of beach glass was missing.

There were other theories as to who might have stolen it. Since there were no witnesses to the theft, all guesses were based on speculation fueled by personal grudges or prejudice. No one was confronted directly, the accusers preferring, as is family custom, to triangulate and gossip behind backs. Over the years, there was a lot of discussion about the matter, always with head-shakes of disapproval that someone would sink so low. Alcoholism, infidelity, unwed pregnancies and drug use�all these topics, while relevant to our family�s situation, went undiscussed, while the purloined beach glass held sway over all.

Second to my grandmother, the primary speculator was Uncle Todd�s wife, Carol. Rail-thin and neurotic, she had bullied her way, through a combination of martyrdom and inflexibility, into the role of my grandmother�s caretaker and, as she saw it, protector. I sent a letter to my grandmother after I moved to the west coast, an affectionate note telling her how much I missed her, mentioning some of the good times I�d had at her house. In response, I received a letter from Carol. �Cudos to you!� she misspelled, congratulating me on having thought to tell my grandmother that I�d felt fortunate to have her influence. �Many people do not have the opportunity to express thanks to their grandparents,� she added, apropos of nothing. That she thought nothing of opening my grandmother�s mail and sending me a review of my letter did not come as a complete surprise, given her frequently voiced opinions on everything from the ladies in her church choir to the vintage brocade jacket I chose to wear to Easter dinner. (�Gee, Violet� I�m real impressed,� she said, with heavy sarcasm.) Suffice it to say that I was not alone in my deep dislike of Aunt Carol, nor in my resentment that she had weaseled her way into my grandmother�s affairs.

I bring this up only because yesterday, my cousin Ellen and I were discussing, on e-mail, Uncle Todd�s obsession with the idea that people have stolen things from the beach house, which he inherited after my grandmother�s death. Among the things he believes to have been taken are a potato masher of no particular value, and a photograph that in truth, he gave to Ellen. There are other items, but their common theme is total lack of monetary worth. Our aunt Liz ran off with every stick of sterling flatware and all of Grandmother�s jewelry, but that is never mentioned. Todd has, however, developed elaborate �theories� about the disappearance of the potato masher, which he has revealed to everyone except the person he believes responsible.

In the discussion with Ellen, I mentioned the purloined beach glass incident of 1990. �I heard from someone that she thought my brother took it,� I wrote. Ellen wrote back, �She told me that YOU had stolen that beach glass.� I was surprised, although I shouldn�t have been. Suddenly, my policy of writing off Carol�s behavior to craziness seemed insufficient.

�She said *I* took it?� I wrote back, �What else did she say?� In order to defend myself, I�d need details, more information about the tone she used, the facial expression, the specifics of the crime, her perception of my motivation. Ellen didn�t remember anything except the accusation itself, so it was pointless to pursue the matter, but I am still mulling it over. Why of all people, did she suspect me? It bothered me that she�d, behind my back, told others that I was a thief. It paled in comparison to the things I�ve said behind her back, of course, but I figured I had a lot of back-up on my accusations, where hers was pure conjecture. �I think Violet stole it.� Interesting.

Carol left Uncle Todd a while back, for the director of the choir they sang in at church. �The Lord moves in mysterious ways,� explained the choir director to my uncle, which I thought was rather genius, blaming his adultery on God himself, thereby bestowing a sort of Heavenly seal of approval on an activity that is generally understood to be explicitly forbidden in the Ten Commandments.

Todd now lives at the beach house he inherited, and considers every item in it his, and anything removed from it�even prior to his inheritance�stolen. He is livid about the potato masher, still.

I amused myself by imagining writing a letter to Carol, in which I confess to a host of imaginary crimes:

Dear Mrs. Choir Director: (I would start out, for bitchiness� sake)

Just so we�re clear, here is a list of things I stole from the beach house over a period of years spanning 1978--present:

1. Potato masher


2. Box of "Appian Way" brand pizza crust mix (expired) (which does not diminish its value, nutritional or sentimental!!!)


3. Seven pounds of driftwood, assorted shapes


4. Wooden decoy duck with glass eyes


5. Three paper towels (unused)


6. Partially full tube of Dentu-Creme (leaking)


7. Melted chocolate bar


8. Small vial containing beach glass--the only beach glass ever to have existed on any beach, anywhere!


9. Spatula with red wooden handle (cracked)


10. Rag rug made of scraps of industrial polyester fabric cut from remnants of a pattern used to cover the seats of commercial airplanes


11. TV Guide from 1983, featuring Lee Horsley as Matt Houston on the cover


12. Four coffee filters�the good kind they used to make, not like the chintzy ones you get nowadays


13. White plastic ice cube tray


14. Yellow toy shovel


15. Assorted twigs and leaves from the time the hedge got cut way down


16. One handful of sand


17. A deck of cards (pinochle edition), with yellow and pink floral graphic on the reverse, missing the two of spades, the eight and Queen of diamonds, and featuring the words "YOU ARE GAY" scrawled on both Jokers.


18. Action figure of C-3PO, missing most of its gold paint


19. Three flip-flops, various colors


20. One ladies� ring, 18k yellow gold, with a seven-carat colorless diamond and twenty-six flawless emeralds arranged into the pattern of a snowflake.

I feel so much better now. Confession really is good for the soul. �Cudos� to you for correctly discerning my criminal nature!

Now, remember: if you feel resentment over my having absconded with any of these trinkets, please tell everyone except me.

The peace of the Lord be always with you,

Violet

It is fun to imagine sending such a letter, except for two things:

1. I don�t have her current address, and

2. She was right about the beach glass.

Star of the day. . .Andy Pipkin