I have often thought about what I would want to grab should I find myself in a house on fire. And for me, it has always come down to old treasured things; old black and white family photos, my Dad's WWII khaki army sewing kit, the wax seal my grandmother used on the back of envelopes and this small box (see above), among other old objects, otherwise considered without value. It's funny, because even as a little kid I loved old, odd things. I loved the shredded asbestos, tumbleweed and the rock from Man on the Moon, Idaho. I loved the square, white rimmed old photo of my parents, aunt and friends, with my Uncle Rolf lying across the lot of them on the cushioned sofa. All of them grinning, I imagined they had been drinking a bit and laughing hard about adult things!
I pulled this box from my dresser drawer because Kodak, having just declared bankruptcy, is fresh on my mind. I pulled it out and remembered that inside was this soft and worn coin purse and that inside that, was this 1910 Indian head coin. This is the kind of tender, with-a-story thing I love. It was my Dad's and now it's mine and without a doubt, I'd throw this in my feedbag if flames were nipping at my heels. Singes be damned! I love the faded box, with promises of something special inside and I love the worn coin purse, soft as suede and goodness knows how old. And inside, like the promise of the surprise in a Russian doll, the coin, 102 years old. In God We Trust, then and now, even if God is a blue-eyed carpenter, a laughing Buddah, or simply found in the grandeur of a salmon-orange sun setting beneath the ocean or snow sparkling under a white-blue winter's moon. Even if we've lost our faith and our trust, a little bit of us - or me, anyway - never fails to find a bit of hope in that. That snow, that sun, once I catch my breath.
