“Jeremy, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be cleaning the garage.”

    “Ryan’s supposed to help me, but I don’t know where he is,” I complained to my father. “When are we going to the park to play baseball?”

Baseball is my life. Me and my buddies play during recess, at lunch time, after school, or whenever we can get a game of pickup going. Sometimes on weekends Dad takes us to the park to play.

“We can go after the garage has been cleaned,” Dad promised. “Find your brother and get to work. I’ll help when I get back from the store.”

Dad thought that it was good for us to work together on projects around the house. He said it builds character and relationships, but his idea of family time was my idea of child labor. I headed toward the kitchen in search of my younger brother. Sooner or later Ryan would turn up there. I found him perched on a stool at the counter, washing down a plate of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with a large glass of milk.

I reached over him, grabbed a cookie, and took a bite, “Dad says we have to clean the garage before we can go play ball.”

“I know.”

“So, get moving.”


“You’re not the boss of me,” he replied.

“Bring some garbage bags with you.”

“Yes sir,” he replied with a mock smile topped by a milk mustache.

 The garage was an old wooden building sitting at the back of our property. Last year, when we moved in, we painted it green with white trim to match our house. Even with the fresh coat of paint, it still looked a hundred years old.

    I raised the ancient metal latch and pulled on the heavy weather-beaten wooden doors. They swung noisily on rusted hinges. I grabbed the two-by-fours we used to prop the doors open and set them in place. I stepped inside and breathed in the stale, dank air. A quick jerk of the chain dangling from the middle of the ceiling brought the solitary light bulb to life.

What a mess. Leaves and dirt blown in from the yard littered the floor. A stack of old paint cans teetered in the corner. Empty boxes were water-soaked and strewn about. Mom’s gardening tools were leaning against the wall and a loosely coiled hose snaked into the middle of the floor. Other boxes, still to be unpacked, were stacked on top of a workbench that lined the back wall.

I was moving our bikes out of the way when Ryan came sauntering along, garbage bags in hand.

    “When I get these bikes out of here, you can start picking up those cardboard cartons. Stack them up and tie some string around them, so they can be recycled.” Ryan didn’t like me ordering him around, but he obeyed and started piling the boxes.

    “They’re all wet and yucky,” he protested.   

“Put on a pair of work gloves and you won’t notice so much,” I offered.

I was busy prying the lids off old paint cans. I had just popped the lid off an old can of Lemon Zest yellow that Mom used to paint the upstairs bathroom when I heard a crash.

    “Hey, what happened?” I looked up to see Ryan standing with a handle in his hand and the bits and pieces of the workbench drawer lying at his feet.

“I was just looking for some string to tie up the boxes, and the drawer wouldn’t budge, so I yanked it and it fell apart,” Ryan’s face was screwed up like he would burst into tears any second.

    “Don’t cry.”

    “I’m not gonna cry,” he countered.

The bottom of the drawer had rotted away. The slightest movement would have caused it to crash to the ground.
 
    “Hey, what’s this?” Ryan asked as he pulled an envelope sticking up from the pile of rubble, dusted it off and turned it over so we could read the block lettering printed on the front. It read, ‘DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2009’.

     “What do you think this is?” Ryan asked.

“Let’s see what’s inside,” I said and reached for the envelope. I tore open the end and pulled out a single sheet of yellowed paper.

    “What’s it say?” Ryan asked.

     “It looks like a map,” I said.

    “Like a pirate’s treasure map?” Ryan asked.

    “Yep. Look there’s a tree, and a box with the word House written on it and another box labeled Garage. The X must mean something.”

    Just then, Dad entered the garage. “Hey you guys, you’re supposed to be cleaning up, not making a bigger mess.”

    “Look Dad,” exclaimed Ryan as he yanked the paper from my hand.

    “We found this map, stuck to the bottom of the drawer,” I said.

    “Let’s see,” Dad said as he took and studied the sheet. “I bet this is our back yard. This looks like the fence line and the tree must be that big maple in the back corner. How about we see what’s under that X? Grab the shovels boys; we’re going on a treasure hunt.”

    “Oh boy,” Ryan’s face beamed with excitement. He picked up Mom’s gardening shovel and I grabbed the spade. Dad was already heading toward the maple tree.

“The X is ten paces from here and twenty paces from the house. Jeremy, you measure from the house. Ryan, count ten steps from here. The point that you meet is where we’ll start digging.”

Ryan started marching, counting off each pace with his fingers. I measured the twenty paces from the house and broke the soil on the spot where we met.

    Just then Mom appeared on the back porch. “Jim, there’s a phone call for you.”

     “I’ll be right back,” Dad said as he started toward the house. “You two keep digging.”

    Ryan and I dug furiously for awhile, then we ran out of steam.

     “We’re wasting our time,” Ryan complained, “There’s nothing here.”

    “There’s got to be something. Why would anyone draw a map and hide it under the drawer? Come on, keep digging,” I urged.

“Probably someone’s idea of a joke,” Ryan argued.

“Maybe there’s a treasure chest with gold coins or a ruby-jeweled sword,” I dreamed. “We could buy new baseball gloves and a new bat.”

    Fuelled by the daydream, we worked with renewed energy. First I would fill my shovel; then Ryan would take his turn. The dirt was piling up around the outside of our hole.   

“Maybe it’s just an old, dead cat,” Ryan speculated.

    “Yuck, I hope not.” My enthusiasm waned.

    “How’s it going?” Dad asked.

    “Ryan thinks we are digging up someone’s dead pet,” I answered.

    “I hope not,” Dad said.

    Just then Ryan’s shovel rang out with a clang. “I’ve hit something,” he said.

    “Is it a rock?” I asked.

    “I’m not sure,” Ryan dropped the shovel and got down on his knees. He reached into the hole and began to clear away the dirt with his hands. I joined him and we uncovered a square metallic box. I lifted it out of the hole and placed it on the ground.

    “This looks like an old cookie tin like the one my Grandmother had. Ryan, run to the garage and get a rag to wipe off the dirt. And bring a flathead screwdriver so we can pry off the lid,” Dad yelled after him.

    Ryan returned with the rag and handed it to Dad. He wiped the dirt away and popped the lid off with the screwdriver.

“Look,” Dad said as he picked up and unfolded a piece of paper. “It’s dated November 14, 1969.”


“What’s it say?” Ryan asked.
Dad read, “This TIME CAPSULE must not to be opened until after January 1, 2009. Please HANDLE WITH CARE. Signed Andrew and Michael Davis-Haynes.”

    “What’s a time capsule?” I asked.


“It’s a container filled with objects from a certain time period to be discovered by future generations,” Dad replied.

“What for?”

“It’s a way of communicating with people in the future. Like a history lesson, to let them know about the past. Let’s take this inside and see what’s in here,” Dad said. “Jeremy, run ahead and put out some newspaper on the kitchen table so we can spread the contents out.”

    Dad set the tin box onto the kitchen table and we began to carefully place the items on the newsprint.

Our kitchen table was covered with memorabilia from the past. There was a Superman comic book, a copy of the Hardy Boys’ book entitled, “The Arctic Patrol Mystery”, a PEZ candy dispenser, a skipping rope with red wooden handles, a penny, a nickel and a dime circa 1969, a newspaper article about Cape Canaveral and the Apollo 12 space mission, a ticket stub from the Jungle Book movie, a 45 record with the Beatles’ song “Come Together” on one side and “Something” on the other side, a green wooden YoYo, a couple of Hot Wheels model cars, and a 1968 Roger Maris baseball card.

    “Wow, this takes me back,” Dad said as he eyed the loot lying on our kitchen table.

    Mom came into the kitchen, “What’s all this?” she asked.

    “We dug up a time castpole in the backyard,” Ryan said.

    “A time capsule,” I corrected him. “It had all this stuff in it.”

    “What are you planning to do with it,” Mom asked.

    “Keep it, what else?” I answered.

    “You could bury it again,” Mom suggested.

    “No way. I’m keeping the Hot Wheels,” Ryan said as he grabbed the two models from the table, one in each fist.

    Mom looked over the haul again. “Why don’t you create your own time capsule? You can keep one item each, but the rest goes back into the ground.” Mom had that look she gets when there is no arguing with her.

    “But, Mom,” Ryan protested.

“No buts. You can bury these items from 1969 and add your own.  Your time capsule will have memorabilia from two historic periods.”

    “I guess that’d be okay,” Ryan agreed. “In a hundred gazillion years someone else can see the stuff we put in.”

“I’m keeping the Roger Maris baseball card,” I said and scooped it off the table.

“That’s fine,” Mom said.

    “I’m tempted to keep the Superman comic book, but I think instead I’ll buy a current issue and add it to the pot,” Dad added.

    We spent the next hour gathering loot for our time capsule. When we returned to the kitchen, there was a Rubbermaid box sitting on the table.   

    “Let’s see what you’ve brought,” Dad said. “Mom said to use this box for your treasures.”

    We laid our goods on the table. There was Ryan’s digital display Mickey Mouse watch, a DVD of Batman’s latest movie The Dark Knight, a 2009 penny, nickel and dime, an mp3 file on a zip drive with two hundred current hits, a ticket stub for the movie Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, a Captain Kirk PEZ candy dispenser, and a newspaper article on President Obama’s historic inauguration. We put the 1969 items back into the tin box and placed it beside our treasures.

    Ryan and I wrote a note just as Andrew and Michael Davis-Haynes had, asking the finders of our time capsule to keep up the chain by adding things from the future, then to put everything back into the ground for the next generation to find.

    We took digital photos of everything to remember them. Dad carried the box out to the backyard and we buried our time capsule in the same spot we found the 1969 version. 

    I drew a new treasure map and put in into a plastic envelope. On the outside of the envelope I wrote: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2049. Then Dad nailed it to the back wall of our garage.

    “Okay boys, let’s go to the park and play some ball. We can always clean the garage tomorrow.”