Small Treasures

Small Treasures

Noel Laflin

6-17-14

The man had just opened the fifth old dusty box.

“Ah!  Teddy!,” he exclaimed, pulling forth a very old and tattered bear that had magically appeared under the family Christmas tree nearly sixty years ago.  The fellow, sitting cross-legged and enjoying the coolness of the garage floor, suddenly recalled that wondrous morning as if it had been yesterday.  This particular bear had once tried to run away from home with him when he was four.  They were old co-conspirators reunited once more.

“You are a fine and trusted friend, Teddy.  But you are not a stack of letters unfortunately.  So, pull up a chair and keep me company.  I am on a mission.”

And with that, the old bear joined the likes of other small treasures recently re-discovered and ever growing – including a faded blue ocarina, a small metal horse, junior as well as high school yearbooks, letters of commendation for the rank of Eagle Scout, report cards, grade school progress reports and a great-grandmother’s tiny leather coin purse once carried across a stormy Atlantic ocean - eventually bouncing over the Dakota plains by horse-drawn wagon, just like its owner and her Norwegian brood of kids.

“Where the hell are those letters?” the man muttered for the hundredth time, placing in the lap of the bear a forgotten photo of himself and his date from a 1970 Sadie Hawkins dance.  The two young faces smiled conspiratorially as they posed before the “Kiss ‘em or Kick ‘em” hitching post.  You see, the lad had just been introduced to the mysteries of a French kiss that warm spring night - startled so much so by the discovery that he and the girl had tumbled backward off the hay bale upon which they had been snuggling, high in the loft of the old gymnasium.   The photo had been taken a short time later.  He read the accompanying note from the girl who had asked him to be her date that night.

“Don’t read this, Teddy – it’s personal,” he said, smiling broadly at the old memory.

He reached across the ever growing pile of cardboard boxes, shoes, boots, books, dust and debris to grab another cardboard candidate from the dilapidated, sagging metal shelving.

As he did so, he thought back to the Face book message received a few months prior – the catalyst of sorts that precipitated the current search.

“I am still waiting on those letters and photos,” Michael had quipped one day.

“If you saw the state of my garage,” his old friend had typed back, “you’d understand my dilemma.  There is a whole hell-of-a-lot of boxes to sort through.  However, there is an annual garage sale coming up in June.  I will clear through the mess then.  Be patient.  I will find them.”

And with the garage sale but two days away, the hunt was now on.

 

Michael had been one of his closest friends that first year of camp, forty-four years prior.  Being a few years older, he had taken the youngster under his wing and shown him friendship.  The boy looked up to him in return, grateful for the memories of that summer – remembering how his older friend would be joining the Army at the close of camp.  Being inducted into the armed services in the fall of 1968 usually meant one thing eventually – a deployment to South East Asia.  And, sure enough, that is what came to pass. 

But, throughout that year-long trip to Viet Nam came many letters from the soldier.  Michael was a prolific letter writer, always upbeat and funny.  The letters overlapped with those of his own brother - a Marine already in-country.  Now, there were two young men posting letters from half a world away.

In the end, both came home fortunately.  The man in the garage knew that he had letters from each of them.  He had mentioned this to Michael well over a year ago and the former soldier had not let him forget that.  He was determined to find them, re-read them and marvel at the span of years in between. 

But, first he needed to find the right damn box in which they were squirreled away.

 

Box after box, the hunt continued from Thursday afternoon until the wee hours of a new day.  The garage floor was nearly impassable with piles of books, hundreds of letters and cards from mom, sister, a favorite aunt, a nutty aunt and an ancient grandmother who chose to write in her native Norwegian as she never really mastered the English language.  There were Cub Scout uniforms covered in gold and silver arrowheads, a zillion camp patches and ceramic mugs celebrating Scout Jamborees as well as a favorite summer camp now long gone in all but memory.

Still – no letters from brothers (related by blood or choice) written from half a world away – nearly half a century ago.

But, at five o’clock on Friday afternoon that all changed. 

“I’m down to three lousy boxes, Teddy,” the dust-covered man lamented to the sad looking bear still perched upon his throne of ever increasing small treasures, as he reached for a box tucked safely away on a bottom shelf.

He removed the cardboard lid.  Old school newspapers, edited by his very hand, protected some of the items placed below.  A portion of an envelope caught his eye.  There was a distinct outline of a long narrow country pre-printed on the front.  It was surrounded by the outlines of other South Asian countries: Laos, Cambodia, Thailand.

 

Bingo!  The man hooted with joy and told Teddy to hold down the fort as he carried the box into the house.

Items were slowly removed and separated over the next three hours.  It should not have taken so long, but there were letters to open – long lost words to absorb – a few tears to be shed.

There were the letters from a brother – a Marine named Bob.

And, there were the letters from an old camp mentor – a soldier named Michael.  There were twenty-three in all.  One was marked, “Photos – Do Not Bend.” 

It took until Saturday noon to put the garage back in order.  Not much was sold at the garage sale, but that was beside the point.

For by then, the man had already passed along a long-overdue Face book posting.

The man from the garage had some small treasures to mail off to a couple of old servicemen.  

They were going to like them.

Post Script: 

Midway through the writing of this tale, an old friend called (I have many of his letters saved over a four decade span as well), informing me of the passing of a mutual acquaintance’s mother.  We had all been Scouts together at camp, along with a future soldier named Michael, way back in the summer of 1968. I thanked Fred for letting me know. 

Upon calling our mutual friend a short while later, I passed along my condolences and we eventually laughed over fond memories of his folks, whom I had first met, along with their son, so long ago.  He had become and remains to this day like a brother.  Toward the end of the conversation I switched the topic a bit and explained the recent search for old letters from other brothers and the happy ending.

“David, one of the boxes contained another wonderful treasure,” I began.

“There was a letter postmarked, February, 1969.  It was addressed to me in a child’s handwriting,” I continued.

“It was a thank you note from you for the model ship – Columbus’ Nina – which I had sent to you on your eleventh birthday.  It was a very sweet letter.  You apologized for taking so long to write it, as you had a lot of homework apparently.  I bet your mom made sure you wrote that note.  That’s what our moms taught us to do back then.  It was an era of manners, old friend.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Noel,” Dave replied, “I just found the Nina recently.  The mast is bent a little, but other than that, the ship looks fine.  It now sits atop the desk in my study.”

I guess I am not the only keeper of small treasures after all.  Brothers, by blood or choice, often think alike.