Jewelry case, treasure box, and secret objects
Doesn’t every kid have a treasure box? Some sort of secret container tucked under a bed or stowed in the back of a closet?
Made out of cardboard or straw, velvet or plastic. Perhaps an old cigar box. Remember those? Or a metal case that held who-knows-what, subsequently rescued and re-purposed.
I knew I had a child’s jewelry box somewhere; perhaps more than one. And much as I may have hoped it to be vintage Louis Vuitton (filled with opulent brooches and bangles from the 1950s and 60s), I knew it wasn’t that.
I could picture it – a turquoise jewelry case, very small, with a simple divided compartment inside. And this morning, I found it.
The pleasure of treasure
Is it human nature to collect, and then to imbue a trinket with near magical powers? Good luck charms, sentimental letters, the gold beads worn by a beloved grandmother, the pocket watch of a great great uncle?
Doesn’t every child pluck up the found penny with glee, no matter how dirty? Or the pigeon’s feather stuck in the sewer grate? The smoothest pebble ever, washed up on a sandy beach?
As we grow older, our collections multiply exponentially – and I don’t mean expensive possessions. I mean the ephemera and sentimental objects that we hold dear because they connect us to a moment in our lives, to a self we may have lost. We mark our history by saving tangible reminders – the first love letter and thus the first love, the cherished necklace offered as a gift when even a small sum meant great sacrifice. Polaroids of the new baby. Drawings accomplished by a tiny hand.
These are powerful treasures – talismans, tangible proof that we lived a life, that we were loved. That we were born into wonder.
My childhood treasure
Every morning I look around my room and think I must clean this mess. I may start with a particular stack (of books, folders, “stuff”) only to get distracted or too tired or tell myself tomorrow. Oh how I love that Scarlet O’Hara influence. Thank you for my mantra, Margaret Mitchell.
But this morning, when I approached my dresser to clear a space I remembered that buried in one of the drawers was my treasure box, my very first, and I wanted to find it. So I rummaged through envelopes of photographs and a handful of my boys’ carefully wrapped “summer projects.” And there it was. The small leather box with rounded corners and its tightly snapping hinges. Just where I expected it, although it’s been years since I thought of it.
Childhood lost and found
I couldn’t recall what was inside (I was hoping for a string of Mikkimoto pearls or a long lost lapis ring), but when I opened the box, the feeling was glorious.
Childhood. The full-blown openness of possibility.
I was transported to a time of gathering objects from nature, adventures dreamed and lived, a projection of my life as an adult from the eyes and heart of a girl of seven, and again, 16.
I flashed to my brother’s bedroom with its gold chenille drapes and soldier-emblazoned wall paper, his hidden stack of Playboys under the studio bed, and his several cigar boxes, one of which was filled with Matchbox cars and trucks. I can only imagine the others must have held objects he hoarded – army knives and trinkets of his own.
I can picture us as children before life had its way of separating us irrevocably, and I remember tenderly removing my jewelry case from a drawer, fingering the objects inside, then putting them away just as carefully.
Inside the treasure box
What’s inside my treasure box? I discovered a delicious mix, both strange and familiar. There was indeed a string of pearls! A small strand of baby pearls, which some believe portend good fortune and longevity. There was a tiny beaded chain, a mesh Victorian purse, and a lilliputian china cat (no doubt from the Five and Ten).
There were also two Kennedy half dollars from the 1960s, a Buffalo nickel and a Liberty dime, none of which are of any value (I looked them up), but each, beautifully worn. There was a silver locket that belonged to my grandfather. It bears the insignia of the US Marines, and I believe he carried it when he fought in the Pacific in World War II. I imagine it held photographs of my grandmother, or of their children.
There was also a small transparent container with an odd necklace and a reflective disk as amulet, as well as an award pin from High School, and another pin from my travels in Moscow at 16.
From that same summer, I found the bracelet given to me by a boy I met in Kiev, and remembered a park bench and a lingering kiss. There was one more object – a tiny cardboard box, inside which were two antique jugs for my doll house, and a scrap of note from my mother in perfect condition although it is more than 40 years old. In her lovely cursive, it read: Happy Brownie Flying Up Day. Love.
Inside that leather case are precious mementos; reminders of family history, my innocence, my hopefulness, my once nurtured self. Still intact.
Next generation treasure
My younger son has a green treasure box that sits on a bookshelf. He made it when he was six or seven, and he keeps private things inside. I don’t know what, but it remains his place for special objects. I am glad to know it exists.
- Why do children create a space for private treasure?
- As adults, do we need this as much as we did in childhood?
- Do you still have your special case, your treasure drawer, your secret box for memories and magic charms?
What a great find!
I have moved around so much all my life and I think that’s the reason I never became a collector for sentimental purposes. Everything was temporary. Still is.
I did notice not too long ago as a friend was perusing my closet that I had a memory for many of the clothes within it; i.e.; what I was wearing on a memorable day/night. I do have quite a collection of purses and accessories too but none with any sentimental attachment.
There are actually two tiny photographs inside my grandfather’s locket. (I’m embarrassed to say who one of them is – I no doubt put it there when I was 9; a television heart throb I pined for as a child. The other is a baby picture of one of my uncles, age two or three, now deceased.) You should put some images up of your accessories, Mindy! I bet they have stories to tell.
I am like Mindy in that I am such a nomad I don’t have a lot of mementos from childhood, which does make me sad. I do have a little box that contains precious things now – they are just more from my 20s than anything else. My favorite? The bundle of lavender my grandfather in England tied together for me on the last trip I saw my grandmother alive.
I do have a treasure box that is filled with lovely reminders of my past. I have the tiny silver cross that was given to me at my baptism. The class ring from my first love. Handwritten notes from my grandmother. My son who is 11 has such a box and he is filling it with the things he holds dearest to him at this age. My daughter at 15, seems not to be that interested.
I well remember those cigar boxes with my secret treasures hidden inside. I’ve upgraded my boxes now, contents are still probably disposable to most, but they hold wonderful memories for me.
i still love treasure boxes 🙂
i have a few treasures that i am saving for my daughter when she gets older and can enjoy them, but i dont have anything from world war 2. that sounds really cool 🙂
My son also seems to be the more sentimental one in the family. My daughter does collect…clutter. I keep their memorabilia. Much more than my parents did of mine. Also, a lot of my mine got stolen during graduate school. Sad.
What a remarkable post – and one that speaks to me about the powers of seeing as a writer. I am not sentimental; I have trashed a lot of the material culture of my childhood throughout the many moves I’ve made since college. Husband, however, has held onto boxes upon boxes of memorabilia. Reading your piece made me realize for the first time the stories and possibilities that these stashes allow. He has been a writer far longer than I have and perhaps he, like you, was able to see the artistic importance of holding onto the stuff of memory.
I will say, what is saved in earliest childhood was selected and safeguarded because the object itself seemed fascinating or beautiful – visually or texturally interesting. Sentiment (and stories) come in when we are a bit older, and begin to understand the attachment of memory and history to an object.
I go on these crazy cleaning purges, where I throw away damn near everything. So no treasures here…although my mom never throws anything away and I get the benefit. Hence, all the old photos I have.
How cool to stumble across your treasure box!
I’ve held on to very few relics from childhood… but the ones I do have mean the world to me. A rosary from my grandmother, as well as a pendant bearing Mary and a baby Jesus. A pewter thimble she used when quilting, and a yellowed copy of her obituary. She passed away when I was twelve, and I was awkward and stuck inbetween childhood and young adulthood…
Thank you for making me remember what’s stashed in my closet!
I swear, BLW, I drove away to college in 1978 and that same day my mom threw all my stuff in the trash and redecorated the room as a guest room. Thanks, Mom!
But being a writer (and having a degree in History) means I am quite the packrat and the family historian.
Somewhere in my memory, though, I swear there is a little jewelry box with a dancing ballerina.
Ah yes. The dancing ballerina. I remember those boxes.
I have a treasure drawer in one of my dressers. There’s all sorts of crap in there – diplomas, baby teeth that the tooth fairy left behind, marathon medals. Great stuff. But almost nothing from childhood, alas.
I think there is a certain sense of hope we have from our childhoods. The innocent lens from which we saw the world is both engaging and wonderful. I don’t have a box, but I have a journal. I journal that I hold dear to my heart.
I am trying to keep memories for my babies. I want them to look back at their early years with fondness.
I have more than a few treasures that I have secured over the years. Some are locked inside a special chest and others are hidden in a few other places.
The desk I had as a child is a particular favorite of mine. It is shrink wrapped and stored inside my garage. Two of the drawers contain some of my favorite things from childhood.
Helping my parents move from my childhood home a few summers ago was like a treasure hunt. My old bedroom still just as i left it when i got married. Including a wedding portrait and photos of friends. And treasures from their lives also. so great! and to share it all with them.
I have a treasure box, though I never called it that. I call it a memory box. I seemed to have stopped putting stuff in there since my kids were born, but hopefully that will make it even more special when I go back and look through it.