Summer a season for just slowing down your pace.

This story was written a few summers ago when I pulled a distant memory from my childhood to put into words.

Much of this story is true.

Uncle George, lived across the road from my childhood home. By his blue front door, you would find purple rhododendrons, in august they would be past their flowering time. What you would find would be the brown dried up flower heads, with spider webs adorning.

Uncle George as we knew him was an archaeologist and did attend and take part in may digs in the local area. His house was very much as I have written it in the story you may have just read.

He was a kind and gentle man, I think he had family but cannot ever remember who they were and recall them visiting him.

He always had a pocket full of Murray mints and if I were to eat one today, I would remember him with true affection.

The little fossil I found that August afternoon, did disappear. I am pretty certain it ended up in the collections of one of my older siblings. Who knows, not me! But my search for that elusive piece of magic goes on. When I am digging in my garden or beachcombing, my eyes will be down with Uncle George’s voice gently whispering in my ear.