Buried Treasure

Recently, while rummaging through our plastic storage bin we use to house photograph albums, I uncovered a black-and-white picture dated July, '57. In the photo, my husband, who was then four-years-old, is seated in one of those aluminum lawn chairs with the webbing, the kind that leave stripes on the back of your legs if you sit too long. He is seated opposite his grandfather, who is wearing a baseball cap, long pants and a short-sleeved collared shirt. They are beside a lake, the water gently lapping along the bank. A long fishing pole mounted in a metal tube is staked into the ground under my husband's chair. When I showed my husband the picture, he denied that he was indeed the little boy, the one with his feet resting on the aluminum slat, his small arms folded across his chest. "No," I said, "That's you and that's your grandfather, your Opa." A look of disbelief crossed his face. "See," I continued, "It looks like you and he were having a nice time together, all relaxed and conversing. He pondered for a moment. "No," he said, "We're staring at the fishing pole, at the bell on the tip, waiting for it to ring." It didn't matter to me what he remembered, or what he saw in the image. Even though the photograph is a bit blurred and faded, and an odd shape that will be tricky to frame, I figure it needs a better home than a plastic storage bin. To me, this was buried treasure. What better way to remind ourselves of a simpler past, unhurried moments, and generational connections. I hope one day, when our grandchildren are grown, and the image of our faces have grown cloudy with the passing of time, there will be a photograph to remind them. One they can cherish and gaze at from time to time. Photographs are a wonderful way to keep the lamp burning and to pass the treasure along.