Ancestry Magazine

When my husband and I moved into our home eight years ago, I was in the midst of a major writing project and was not as organized as I should have been. As we hauled box after box of “history” from one house to another, my husband shook his head in disbelief and regularly proclaimed that we didn’t need all this “junk.”

Recently, I was searching in a dark corner of our basement for an Indian arrowhead for my granddaughter’s school project, when I found a box that hadn’t been opened in many years. Inside was the long-unseen treasure box that contained the arrowhead I had found as a little girl.

An odd assortment of items had been stashed in the treasure box along with the arrowhead, and each item brought memories to my mind. I found a memorial card marking my Grandfather Dyer’s death date in Brooklyn in 1952, and a not-so-recognizable leather strap that had fallen off his policeman-father’s nightstick. A brooch that belonged to the aunt who raised me was also in the box, along with a handkerchief I’d painted for her when I was about eight years old. I found a handful of postcards with scenes of Mexico from a dear Mexican friend as well as the postcards that Auntie Teresita sent to me when she went home to Italy in the 1950s. I also found a souvenir spoon from Auntie Betty when she went home to England around the same time. There were even trinkets I’d received from a Swedish friend and a German friend.

I’m afraid it’s going to be mighty confusing to those who come after me to try to fit some of these people into my family tree—they actually don’t belong there. When I was growing up, I was taught to address my elder friends as Mr. and Mrs., but because so many of them became such close friends they were known to me as “auntie” and “uncle.”

A photo in the box of me with my childhood friend, Yadzia, (whose mother was a Polish Countess and an artist of note) made me laugh. It was taken around the time that our attempt to learn more about the world got us into a heap of trouble. We had heard that China was just underneath us on the other side of the globe and we were fascinated! We thought that if we were to dig long enough, we’d find ourselves there. Sandbox shovels were not making a dent in the desert sand in my backyard, but we somehow discovered that the garden hose, if left running, would burrow a hole deep into the earth. All we wanted was a peephole so we could see what China was like. All we ended up with was a severe scolding because the hose went so deep that it had to be cut off and a new one bought.

This long-unseen treasure box with mementos from family and friends brought a flood of happy mem ories, and the realization of how blessed I was to have been influenced by all these people.

Finding the old box has also reminded me that unless I take some time to sort and label my family heirlooms and manuscripts, their value will be unrecognizable to my children and grandchildren. What is a simple treasure box now has the potential to one day be transformed into a treasure map—a treasure map that points to a goldmine of otherwise hidden information. But it’s up to me to leave the box in such a way that my posterity will regard it as treasure, and not as the “junk” it might become if I’m not careful to document what’s inside.