Henry Alford

Painted seashells, a lurid conch, a Pierrot-themed weather vane, a giant starfish waving an American flag, two raffia chickens with googley eyes, an ambitious amount of tern art: If you had to categorize the contents of the beach house I rented that summer under one artistic school, you’d probably go with Alcoholic Gift Shop.

“Maybe I’ll deep-six some of this stuff in a closet for July and August,” I thought, reaching for a paper bag in which to decant the more vivid items. My plan was, come Labor Day weekend I would re-tchotchke. The house’s owner would never be wise to my slightly aggressive act of biocontainment.

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