Treasure in the Shade

For what felt like an eternity to a four-year-old, I impatiently waited by the screen door for the sound of the lawn mower stopping. While Grandaddy was out mowing the lawn, I discovered a gaggle of treasures at the bottom of some forgotten drawer that I was likely not supposed to be snooping in. Running through the house, I presented the priceless baubles to Grandma. Interrupting her pea snapping, I squealed, “Grandma, look what I found!” She looked up from her task and drawled, “I’ll saaayy,” her signature response to exciting news. “What have we got here, Brittany Girl?” “Treasures,” I responded proudly.

I didn't know much about treasure, except that it needed to be buried. “Will you help me bury it?” I asked. Her lips pursed in that sideways smile of hers as she moved the wide steel bowl full of peas from her lap to the counter where she spent her days. I started squealing again, knowing this meant - yes! She admonished, hand on her hip, “Practice patience, Brittany Girl, let me see what I can find,” and started opening cabinets.

Grandma’s cabinets were a jumbled abyss of what-ifs. A child of the Great Depression, nothing went to waste. Old jars, barely used Ziplock bags, and empty Cool Whip containers all underwent the same “what if I need a…” elimination process, which rarely resulted in liquidation. Heaven forbid a guest wants to leave with an extra supper plate and have nothing to carry it home in. After a few minutes of hunting for an appropriate vault for my treasure, she presented me with a tiny mason jar. “Here you go. Now, wait ‘til Grandaddy gets done mowin’ and he’ll bury it for ya.”

So I waited, sitting and fidgeting on the floor between Grandma’s perch by the counter and the screen door. The hum of the mower finally stopped, and I bolted out the door like a bull from a chute, ignoring both of Grandma’s instructions to 1. put on shoes and 2. not slam the door.

The freshly mowed grass was cool and sticking to my feet as I ran barefoot through the field toward the shed where Grandaddy kept his gardening tools. Every muscle in my body was tense with excitement as the trinkets bounced around in the glass jar. Whizzing past the purple cosmos, then around the giant butterfly bush, I could see the chipped red paint of the shed. Just as I made it to the swing he’d hung earlier that summer under the apple tree, Grandaddy strolled around from the back of the shed. He stretched his long arms as wide as they could go, with a smile on his face just as wide. “Hi, Brittany Girl!” He said as he scooped me up in his arms with one of his encompassing hugs that could melt away any sadness, and we started toward the house. “Grandaddy, look at my treasure!” I insisted as I presented the jar while we walked. Same as his lifelong sweetheart, he drawled, “I’ll saaayy!” I quickly relayed Grandma’s orders with confidence. “Grandma said you’d help me bury it.” With an about-face, he said, “Well then, let's go bury it,” and walked back toward the shed to fetch a shovel.

-----

There were several gardens throughout the twenty-three acres that had belonged to Grandma’s family for generations. We chose a small shade garden on the edge of the property as our burial site. Just behind the Hostas planted by my great-grandmother, we selected a slender tree with a distinctive split in the trunk as our “x” that would mark the spot. The rip of the shovel through the earth was the rhythm to the song of the summer going on around us while Grandaddy dug a small hole. I ceremoniously dropped the jar into the hole and covered it myself with dirt and a few nearby rocks. There, the treasure remained, its location a guarded secret, known only to the two of us.

As the years turned to decades, the treasure beneath the split tree in the shade garden became infamous. Often during a Sunday afternoon supper, Grandma would re-tell the story of Brittany Girl’s buried treasure, exclaiming, “They won’t even tell me where it is!” Someone else at the table would ask, “Do y’all still remember where it is?” “Oh yes,” Grandaddy and I would respond, and the tether to that place and to the magic that moment created would grow stronger and pull harder with every re-telling.

Many summer days at Granddaddy’s house made my often stormy childhood feel magical, but the buried treasure in the shade garden is by far the most impactful and one of my most cherished memories. The small mason jar became increasingly priceless to me as time passed—an actual treasure. A physical memento of the whimsy and freedom that Grandma, Grandaddy, and their home filled my young days with. This physical tether to the magic of the ordinary buried in the ground, grounded me and acted as a beautiful constant in my life as an often wayward young woman, until March of 2019.

Grandma lay in her hospital bed, still smiling, with all the friends and loved ones who came to say their goodbyes. She was surrounded for days by a parade of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, dear friends, and helping hands. I sat beside her bed one of those days, alongside her lifelong friends and pastors, Bro. Billy and Sis. Mary Anne. But as was her way, it was Grandma giving comfort to the minister who was there to comfort her. “Don’t you cry, Billy, I’ve got a satisfied mind.”

I will never forget those words or that moment as long as I live.

-----

The days after Grandma crossed over Jordan to sing with the angels were dark and full of wailing that high lonesome sound. The world didn’t lose a light when we lost her, as some might say; we lost a giant, raging bonfire —a hot and fiery beacon in the night —and everyone who knew her felt the cold of her absence.

Just as we all felt the warmth of life starting to return, a difficult decision blew in with a chill —to sell their land at auction.

Saying goodbye to the acres of enchanting memories would not be easy for anyone, least of all my cousins and me, who spent countless hours there under the sun, passing the time on a quilt spread out on a bed of grass, fishing in the pond, or racing through corn stalks. And so we gathered there, for one last time, and celebrated all the happiness that priceless piece of earth brought each of us. Friends and neighbors joined us on the lawn. Old country music added to the soundtrack of laughter and screams of delight. We told stories, played chess, inspected the barn, pulled up the old well where our foremothers drew water, and ran through rows of blackberries, the ranks of corn stalks long gone.

But throughout the day, one corner of the property called to me - the shade garden near the edge, where we buried my most precious memory.

Panic and grief overcame me. I could not let this place be sold with my treasure still in the ground. So, together with Grandaddy, we decided to dig up our treasure after more than thirty years.

-----

We quickly realized excavating the treasure would be a much more challenging task than burying it was. Time had taken over most of the shade garden, and to our eternal laughter, there was somehow more than one split tree presiding over the garden. It became abundantly clear that I would need help that Grandaddy could no longer give me.

My mama burns with the same fire and determination as hers did, so I enlisted her to help me and bestowed upon her the esteemed honor of the location of our infamous treasure.

We spent hours clearing brush and waving a metal detector; our arms scratched and scraped while the neighbor dog barked in defiance. I would not be defeated. I would not go gently into a world severed from this most essential tether to my childhood. We began to wonder if the lid of the jar was even metal. Surely we didn’t bury it so far down that the metal detector purchased for this very moment was folly.

Beep..

All three of us froze.

Beep… Beep Beep… Beep

I turned with shock on my face, and my breath halted. Shaking like a leaf, I said, “Mama, hand me the shovel.” I started digging with the same tense excitement as I had that summer day long ago, running toward Grandaddy through the freshly mowed grass. It didn't take long for my shovel to strike the ground with a “Ting!” I dropped it like it was on fire, and my knees hit the ground I loved so much. There it was. After all these years, it was out of my memory and in my hands. Smaller than I remembered, but there all the same. Relief and joy washed over me like a tidal wave, and there was nothing that could have taken the smile from my face.

Scraped and covered in sacred ground, I made the three-hour drive home through a blur of tears. When I arrived, I found my sweetheart sitting on our porch, waiting for me with a smile and a place to land. I collapsed onto the sofa under the weight of all that beautiful emotion rolling through me, and I handed him my most priceless possession. “There it is,” I said, still fighting tears. “Do you know where you want to bury it?” He asked softly, in reverence to the holiness of the moment. “I do. But I’m not ready yet,” I rasped back, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve thought about this little jar for over thirty years. I’m not ready to put it back in the ground just yet.”

That was four years ago. Now here I sit, treasure long since re-buried by the river on the second most special piece of land on earth and a stone's throw from my great-grandmother’s relocated hostas —staring at a text from Mama. Sent to my brothers and me, the text read “Letting y’all know that we're planning to have Grandaddy’s 90th birthday party on August 2.”

Tears started running down my face without warning or permission. Tears of joy and gratitude for the multitude of life lived with the mountain of a man like Grandaddy in my corner. The comfort of every all-encompassing hug he’s given me in a time of trouble washed over me. All the tender moments, the losses he's carried me through, played in my mind, and I realized in that moment how rich I am. Because that memory, along with countless others, has kept me rooted to what truly matters in life. The value of my little jar of trinkets has continued to appreciate, transforming it into an actual treasure. A grounding reminder of what is most valuable in life.