What lies beneath

This lovely queen conch -- Strombus gigas, Linnaeus named it in 1758 -- came up not on a beach, but in the bucket of the five-ton backhoe at our pool dig. I was blown away that it had so little damage as it tumbled out among the rocks. Oh, sure, a chipped lip here and some bad stains there, but all in all quite a survivor. It doesn't even have the little hole where you dig in to get the meat out.

On Sunday, when I should have made a blog entry, I was reading another Margaret Atwood novel (Alias Grace this time), and washing the shell. I took an old toothbrush to it and thought about it.

I couldn't help thinking about our conch cottage. It's an architectural style that hails back to the Bahamas -- "Bahama conch" is the usual term here -- with some nods to New England and Africa, about as multicultural as can be. Conch "houses" are two-story. Conch "cottages" are a modest one- or one-and-a-half-story.

Conch structures mix esthetic touches with lots of defensive mechanisms. They are almost always up on piers (for air circulation and to keep dry), have sloping metal roofs (to reflect sun and carry water to the cistern), use dormers (to expand usable space), are shuttered (against hurricanes and the hot sun, while letting air in), have porches (to provide shade and a nice place to sit) and feature tongue-and-groove paneling (for structural strength in each room).

That's our house to a T, though our cistern was filled in decades ago and we'll go for a pool instead.

And part of me thinks the shell is me to a T as well. Older rather than younger -- certainly not the buffed-up, polished version all shiny pink and wired for lamps (though they sure are decorative in the night). Chipped, spotted and stained during a long trip through the years, but still instantly recognizable for what it is. Lit the right way, considered with care, not bad.

And certainly at home in Key West.