One year when our Grandsons were little, instead of giving them Easter baskets, we made them treasure boxes. I found three raw wood boxes while I was thrift store shopping one day and knew they would come in handy for something. Three boys, three boxes, right?
Then, when Easter was on the horizon, I came up with a plan. I painted each box with a resurrection scene and found Scriptures that spoke about treasure. I painted one on the front of each boys box, and placed a couple more on index cards inside. And then, the hunt for treasure box content began.
Boys love stuff. My son Michael used to stuff his pockets full of things. Rocks, feathers, marbles, money. He always wanted shorts with lots of pockets so he could fill them. I always emptied them before washing.
So Paul found stuff. He had a box of really old coins and divided them up in baggies. He had watches that he'd bought in China. Old tie clips, bolos from the 90's and belt buckles as big as my hands. And all of these things were placed inside the boxes. You name it, anything their Papa found in his closet and gave the boys was like gold. I still remember the squeals of delight and excited smiles when they opened them and saw what lay inside.
But these boxes became so much more than I can even find words for. And for me that's saying a lot. The boys loved them so much.
After that, we barely got a hug or a hello when they arrived for playdates. It was always, "Can we have our treasure boxes, Mamo?"
Over the years, Paul and I would find things on trips that would fit inside them, and each time we presented them with something new, it was like we had hung the moon. Little glass vials filled with colored ocean sand, little wooden turtles, cheesy painted surfboards on a string. Wooden mountain coins from our local Jazz Jubilee.
And so, when the boys came over the treasure boxes came out. They'd sit on the living room floor and dump out the contents. They would talk about their stuff, sometimes trying to trade, and then rearrange everything before putting it all back in. Over time though, as the boys got older, squabbles began as all the stuff on the floor got mixed together. "That's mine!", one would say. "No it isn't. It's mine!" "Give it back!" "Mamo! He took my..." whatever it was that he had been accused of taking. So I would have to intervene. These boxes then became lessons in sharing and consequence when they had to be put away. Sometimes there were tears. But like stepping over stones, the boys were learning. Bumps happen along the road of brotherhood and life, and they were learning how to maneuver through them.
Over the last few years as I have thought about those boxes, I remember the love the boys had for all the bits and bobs inside. And when I do, my hearts swells with joy from the memories.
Last week, when I was editing this story for the book, I thought again about the boxes, trying to picture what might still be in them. I was pretty sure we had given them back to the boys before our move across the country, but I asked Paul if he remembered.
"I'm pretty sure there upstairs in one of the guestroom closets." He told me. Really? I thought. How sweet.
So a few days later, I opened the boxes and spread the contents across my bed. Flooded with memories I picked things up as sweet tears filled my eyes. One of the boys still had the baby dinosaur that came from the eggs I buried in our yard. One evening, after digging them up, we excavated three baby dinosaurs around our kitchen table. The next time the boys came over, we made nests for them from twigs and feathers we found on a walk. One of the boys boxes still had the nest inside his box. And there was money. Eight dollars in cash, and 100 dollars of Mamo money. But the sweetest thing, were the glass beads. I had no idea the boys had saved so many of them.
We had a creek that ran through our yard, so one day I decided to spread shiny glass beads in the creek for the boys to hunt. They went crazy filling their pockets with the shiny things. And when the sun hit them just right in the water they sparkled like crazy.
And so, it became a thing. Anytime we had a party or a celebration at our house, and we had quite a few, I'd fill the creek with shiny treasures and pass out little drawstring pouches for the children to collect them in. I hadn't thought about this for years, but to see so many of these little beads inside the boys boxes almost made me cry.
We get to see these three grown up little boys soon, and I can't wait to see their faces when the boxes of treasure get back into their hands. I expect tears to form in their eyes as memories appear. I expect deep long hugs. And I know it will end with stories and laughter.
Life and Love, Papa's old junk, three little boys, and three boxes of treasure. Doesn't get much better than that.
No comments:
Post a Comment