Treasure

Growing up in the 70’s meant camping in the summers with my family. And I mean real camping, not “glamping” as people call it these days. We didn’t drive around in an RV visiting RV campgrounds. We pitched an Army surplus tent and all 6 us bedded down.We slept in sleeping bags, not on air-mattresses, so we always prayed there weren’t little (or big rocks) under us. And we learned to never touch the side of the tent if it was raining, because you’d get wet, for sure. Sounds terrible? It wasn’t. There was always a pond to fish in, a pool to swim in, and forests to roam. We cooked s’mores around the campfire and told stories. Often we went with other families so we had friends or we made friends with other camping families. We went to farms and learned how to milk cows and ride horses and just about every time we’d come home with a new barn cat.

One of those summers, when I was around 10 or so, I was off by myself out in one of the forest areas. I was probably pretending I was some great explorer on an adventure. I was looking for treasure, like I always did. Maybe there would be some fossil no one ever found, or a million dollars in a suitcase left out only for me. I had a great imagination and a great desire to discover something fabulous and become famous. I brought my scavenger book-bag and my trusty stick to look under leaves and under rocks. Mostly I found old bottle caps and lots of bugs. But one day I found a little black book. AhHa, I thought, finally a real treasure. It was dirty and rain damaged to a point, but it was still legible, mostly, I thought because if was buried under a rock in the forest. I couldn’t wait to take it back to the camp- sight so I could delve into it, I was sure it had some cool secrets or stories.

Once I returned to the camping area, I got distracted by something or another. There was always something going on. I remember leaving the Little Black Book in my summer backpack that held all my treasures and basically forgetting about it for the rest of the time. I was 10, after all, and there was so much to do on a summer trip. We returned home and life continued. I finally went through my summer backpack, mostly because it started to smell and my mother mentioned a few times that if I didn’t go through it, she would. I ended up throwing away lots of disgusting, moldy useless trinkets that I had accumulated and then I found The Little Black Book. I eagerly opened it up. I was so disappointed. It was filled with numbers. Only numbers and someone’s initials. I went to toss it, but for some reason decided to hold onto it. Into my desk it went and there it lived for years.

My life went on, and I did all the things people do. I no longer explored in the forest but I explored at the University trying to find out who I was and where I belonged, just like almost everyone else in their 20’s. My Mom packed up my room when I finally got my own apartment and told me to come get my box of stuff or it was going out. So, of course, I did. That box moved with me from apartment to apartment to finally my house, once I got married. I never had looked in it until I was in my real home and until I had to make a decision on whether I needed to keep childhood memories forever or not. When I opened the box, I found amongst my stuff The Little Black Book from that summer long ago. It brought back so many memories of my adventurous side and awakened my curiosity. The pages had yellowed but the numbers were still legible which I felt like was some kind of sign. I needed to find out about this treasure.

At this time computers were readily available and the internet was just getting started, so I figured I’d place an ad online to see if I could find the owner of the Little Black Book. There were initials on the front cover, no name, but I could remember the general location of where I found it and I figured it was worth a shot. Maybe someone out in the internet world wondered what happened to their little book.

I set about writing a lost and found notice; “Found Little Black Book in forest in….” Then I let it go. I figured the chances of ever hearing about it again were about the same as me winning the lottery, but I still played that every week. I’m an optimist, what can I say?

Life went on, and got busy as is usual. I continued to play the lottery and I continued to lose, as usual. Life was basically a routine until one day, I got a reply to my inquiry on the internet.

“This is weird, but my father once told me he buried a little black book, deep in a forest under a rock. Could that be it?’

I immediately replied by asking what his father’s initials were, thinking that would be one way to connect them and to ask what was in the book. The response was incredible.

“His initials were M.S. and the book is filled with numbers only. My father passed away 6 months ago without knowing where that book went”

Bingo. I think I found the owner. I was truly excited for him. It didn’t sound like much but it was thrilling to have this connection with a stranger and to bring him closure. We exchanged addresses and he paid to have it overnighted to his home. I felt like I closed a chapter in his life and hopefully brought him some peace.

2 weeks passed and I received a certified check from my newly found friend in the mail for $20,000.00. Apparently those numbers were for bank accounts that his father had overseas and that was the only record of the numbers. I was dumfounded. I guess I finally did win the lottery. Maybe I’ll start taking my family camping this summer.