Time Capsule Treasure Hunt

In the summer of 1996, my cousins and I buried a time capsule in my parents’ backyard. My mother is the oldest of seven sisters. Five of those six sisters got pregnant within about a year of each other. I was the only boy in that batch.

Due to our close proximity in age—and one of my aunt’s early passing—we spent a lot of time together in the summers. I loved the summer.

On the rural dirt roads and sandy private beaches of Colonial Beach, Virginia, for three months every year, I felt less like an only child and more like a sibling. I have brothers, but they were out of the house by the time I was ten. Colonial Beach gave me peers my own age—comrades, a cohort. It could be lonely growing up in a town with more cows than people, and more bullshit than brains.

Inside the coffee can our folks gave us, we squirreled the treasures of preteens—self-styled young adults. Before we started digging, none of us could remember exactly what those treasures were, but we knew they had to be important.

A cedar-sided rambler with a wrap-around deck built by my father’s hands. We’d marked the spot near the stairs in our minds. Like the burnt-red stain on those planks, our memories had faded with time.

What we remembered placing for posterity was a bit more personal: letters. Each of us wrote notes envisioning our futures. I knew I wanted to be in local politics. Always the little lawyer. Kind of an asshole.

I don’t know what my cousins put in their letters, but I’m certain none of them said, “I’m going to be a single mother,” any more than mine was likely to say, “I’m going to be assaulted on the street for being queer.” I can’t imagine the can holding secrets like “My family won’t speak to me for years because I had an intimate wedding.”

You just don’t expect to find that kind of realness inside. Pogs, maybe. Playing cards? Sure.

But the real stuff? I dunno. We didn’t talk about the realities of meth addiction, about HIV risk for single white women, or about the radio silence when times get too tough to process. Like Mom says, when asked what happens if you marry the wrong man: “You divorce the mother-fucker.” Pragmatism doesn’t always fly at that age.

She’s been married to my dad for a very long time, so don’t misconstrue the quip. We all have choices. We aren’t trapped. Good or bad, we make our own decisions. And besides, maybe mine did say something about being beat up—it happened a lot at that age, too. I don’t want to put holes in my own memory.

Speaking of holes, it was harder than you’d think to find the capsule. Not that I’m a great digger or anything, but I wanted to get my hands dirty. Uncle Mark couldn’t help himself—came over to supervise, then started shoveling. We appreciated that. Little Nathan, Krista’s kid, came to watch what his Grampa and Mom were up to.

Memories fade and change. Get blurry. We all had a different idea of where the past was buried. Holes, holes, holes.

A couple of years ago, after the car industry shit the bed, my folks got out of their twilight project—an old country car dealership—and took on retirement. They’d been active their whole lives. They’re the kind that like to work. Retirement didn’t suit them.

Realizing this, they sold everything and rented out the house. Mom texted me a photo after the last Craigslist buyer picked up the remnants of their furniture.

Me: “Mom! That picture makes me so sad.”

Mom: “Oh, Michael. Don’t be sad. It’s the most free I’ve ever felt. You have no idea how good it feels to let go of stuff.”

My Mom, the big yogi.

After two years on the road seeing America, they came home.

For my family, the Fourth of July is a big deal. Secular, no forced gift culture—just pools, food, and sun. For most of my aunts and uncles, I realize now, this was the only vacation anyone got.

Picture it: cousins aplenty, holding shovels and smiles. Uncle chipping in, Dad supervising. The bushes alongside the deck had changed over the years. The flower bed gave no clues. Time and erosion had almost certainly changed the depth of our prize.

Nervous about never finding it, we dug a few shallow holes. Nothing. We decided to see if technology could help. Dad came out with a metal detector. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Fail.

We dug a hole to the left of the azaleas. We dug another to the right. All we were doing was putting holes in our yard.

Finally, deferring to our elders’ memories, we returned to the first patch, just under the stairs.

Instead of putting holes all over the yard, we decided to dig in one spot.

And dig we did. Deeper. Wider. Mulch and time had changed the depth. Erosion, right? The landmarks had shifted too. How long had that bush been there, anyway? No one could remember.

We just kept going.

When we hit clay, we switched to a pickaxe. Undeterred. A little deeper, and then the telltale sound:

Chink.

Chink. Chink.

The pickaxe had struck the old duct-taped Folgers can.

The years had not been kind to the tin. Rusted out, the plastic lid was destroyed.

What did we find? A cassette tape of our group rendition of Ace of Base’s “I Saw the Sign,” a deflated basketball, and a floppy disk.

But what of our aspirational letters? Our teenage dreams?

They didn’t make it to the future, thank god.

This is a happy story.