The assignment was to choose one thing in your home you truly treasure.
Okay, I can do that. Looking at and looking over the things, the stuff, the junk that filled the house, I wondered why it had come to be here. Whatever use was much of it.
Suddenly, the light flashed. I knew my treasures were not things or stuff or junk. I treasure memories.
Sitting on the rocks on Lake Superior’s shore, feet dangling in the frigid waters, watching a black dot on the far west horizon become a huge floating iron ore boat drifting off to become a black dot on the far away eastern horizon, listening to my mother tell stories of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, believing Mother who told us if we were really quiet that we’d hear Indian moccasins walking by in back of us. We believed her stories and Indian legends.
The first sight of the huge Rocky Mountains and the fear felt as we climbed for the top, holding tight to the rope that was safety if the feet slipped on the uneven rocks. It did happen. Thank heaven for the rope.
The thrill of driving a ten year old car pulling a fifteen foot house trailer across Canada on the Alcan Highway. The highway was a dirt path, sometimes wide enough for two cars to pass. Sitting inside the car stuck in the mud, waiting for a big commercial truck to pull us out. The trucker had to pull us out because the truck needed that space.
The fear when the roaring sound of a landslide nearly pushed the car and house trailer over the edge, down to the bottom of the ravine.
The sigh of relief when we saw the sign, “Entering Alaska.” We stopped, caught our breath, and wondered, “What were we thinking?”
Memories are my treasures. Treasures that fill my journals and fill the long days sitting in the back yard watching the clouds drift by, listening to the chirping birds.
So I’d bring my two 14 year old dachshunds to share. Dogs were not allowed so I brought not a thing, not a piece of stuff, not a bit of junk.