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When I was a kid
there was a mountain made
of sand from phosphate mines.
I loved to climb that mountain,
then roll down, arms slapping,
sand filling every body crevice.
My legs burned as I climbed, toes
dug into the sand, fingers trying
to stop the inevitable downward
slides. The decent, which we made
either in giant, unstoppable strides,
or rolling with laughter and
considerable painful abrasions,
primed us to beg our mother for
“one more time.”
The attraction of the mountain was
increased by the flat terrain of
Florida–none of us had ever seen
a mountain. To be on top, able to
see far away was a joy to a child
whose world was flat.
As Florida was under the ocean at
one time, an added attraction of
Sand Mountain was it treasure trove
of shark’s teeth. We’d pretend we
were panning for gold, letting the sand
pour through our fingers in search for
a nugget disguised as a tooth. We
preferred the shark tooth to gold any day!
Sand Mountain no longer exists as the sand
was used to fill some of the hundreds of
mining pits that dot the landscape. But it
still exists in the memory of a grandmother
living on the edge of the floresta of Brazil.
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