Come June, and on through September, an odd thing happens along the shoreline of the more family oriented beaches of the eastern United States: the shovels come out.

I'm not talking about the plastic shovels oh-so-conveniently placed by the checkout at the supermarket either.  I'm talking garden-variety shovels, possibly even a few industrial spades.

We've been going to the beach for a long time and we spaced this phenomenon until we had a child.  Then it became apparent that we lacked some gene, or drive, or something.  Because we let her dig her own holes.  It's a big sandbox, and what better way to pass the lazy days than letting her wear herself out?

We still do that; we also remain entranced by many of our neighbors at the beach who come down each morning and begin to dig trenches and moats and more.  All on a huge scale.  The results are often amazing: saltwater bathtubs, curbs against the tide, and beautiful sand castles.  Sometimes they're dangerous: beach-raking-machine eating behemoths that hide behind a sand dune. 

Whatever your preference, or level of industriousness, don't forget a shovel when you head to the beach.  Your call as to whether it's blue and plastic or not.