One lazy Saturday afternoon I was walking on the beach on the North end of Longboat Key, Florida – the last unspoiled strip of beach on that once-beautiful island. The currents in Longboat Pass had shifted and were dumping sand in a crescent spit out into the Gulf of Mexico. The new sandbar was forming a tidal lagoon. As I walked along on the sandbar, I came face to face with an eight-year-old girl as she clambered from the lagoon onto the ledge of the sanbar. She was cradling a dozen fresh sand dollars in her arms. Looking past her, I saw her mother and older sister dredging sand dollars from the shallow lagoon. They walked back and forth, systematically scuffing their feet through the soft sand. As they dislodged the sand dollars, they picked them up and held them for the little girl, who transported and piled them by their powerboat that was beached on the sandbar. A pile of several hundred had accumulated on the sand by the boat.

“You know, they're alive,” I said indignantly.

“We can bleach'em at home and they'll turn white,” the little girl informed me. I could hardly argue with that.

“Do you need so many?” I asked.

“My momma makes'em outta things,” she explained.

I pressed my case: “How many does she need to make things?”

“We can get a nickel apiece for the extras at the craft store,” the little girl replied.