Buried
Two friends find buried treasure.
I wish.
That reminds me of my childhood friend Renata. Well, she wasn't so much of a friend as she was the daughter of one of my mom's friends. They lived overseas and Renata would come to Ruston every summer to spend some time with her grandmother. I had to play with her when she came to town.
I am picturing us sitting there on her grandmother's screened-in porch, with the old-timey iron floor fan swooshing around stale humid summer air. Wooden floors, patterned quilts draped over antique mahogany; watermelon for an afternoon snack.
We spent an entire day out there once making rubber bouncey balls by pasting rubber glue onto wax paper, letting it dry and rolling it up with our fingers.
But what we liked to do the most was to bury treasure.
In fact the folks that live at 3001 Belcara Drive in Ruston, La. or anyone in the surrounding Hundred Oaks/Northwood Hills neighborhood might come across several items of note if they try to dig up some trees in their yards.
(We had to do it at my place because Renata's grandmother wouldn't let us dig in her yard).
Things we liked to bury included beads, boxes (more particularly an old, broken Strawberry Shortcake jewelry box), anything I could steal from my sister's room that she might not notice was missing, Monopoly money, Barbie dolls that had seen better days, etc.
One summer, Renata and I had come into some cash from a very well-planned and executed lemonade/chocolate chip cookie stand.
I remember it being quite a bit, actually (perhaps supplemented by overly enthusiastic parental units?).
Instead of running out to spend it on peach ice cream or more rubber glue, we decided it would be wise to bury our money and save it for a rainy day.
(Like our options of activities would be any different).
Not wise.
Renata left to go back to wherever it was that she lived (England? France? Massachusetts?)
I don't think I ever saw her again.
Time passed, and of course I forgot where the money was buried. I remember searching when we moved out of that house, but no luck.
Years later I would go jogging down Belcara Drive, past my old house sometimes. I always wanted to stop by and ask the new owners if they had ever found a shoebox of money buried in the backyard.
I wish.
That reminds me of my childhood friend Renata. Well, she wasn't so much of a friend as she was the daughter of one of my mom's friends. They lived overseas and Renata would come to Ruston every summer to spend some time with her grandmother. I had to play with her when she came to town.
I am picturing us sitting there on her grandmother's screened-in porch, with the old-timey iron floor fan swooshing around stale humid summer air. Wooden floors, patterned quilts draped over antique mahogany; watermelon for an afternoon snack.
We spent an entire day out there once making rubber bouncey balls by pasting rubber glue onto wax paper, letting it dry and rolling it up with our fingers.
But what we liked to do the most was to bury treasure.
In fact the folks that live at 3001 Belcara Drive in Ruston, La. or anyone in the surrounding Hundred Oaks/Northwood Hills neighborhood might come across several items of note if they try to dig up some trees in their yards.
(We had to do it at my place because Renata's grandmother wouldn't let us dig in her yard).
Things we liked to bury included beads, boxes (more particularly an old, broken Strawberry Shortcake jewelry box), anything I could steal from my sister's room that she might not notice was missing, Monopoly money, Barbie dolls that had seen better days, etc.
One summer, Renata and I had come into some cash from a very well-planned and executed lemonade/chocolate chip cookie stand.
I remember it being quite a bit, actually (perhaps supplemented by overly enthusiastic parental units?).
Instead of running out to spend it on peach ice cream or more rubber glue, we decided it would be wise to bury our money and save it for a rainy day.
(Like our options of activities would be any different).
Not wise.
Renata left to go back to wherever it was that she lived (England? France? Massachusetts?)
I don't think I ever saw her again.
Time passed, and of course I forgot where the money was buried. I remember searching when we moved out of that house, but no luck.
Years later I would go jogging down Belcara Drive, past my old house sometimes. I always wanted to stop by and ask the new owners if they had ever found a shoebox of money buried in the backyard.
posted by lauren at 7:01 PM
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