Collection for Posterity

Starting in my twenties, I saved everything I deemed significant enough to pass on to my future children: newspapers that told of major news events; tickets stubs from concerts like the Beetles; items I thought would be collectible and valuable someday; and my writings from the mid seventies through the late nineties. Somewhere along my travels from Indiana to Florida to North Carolina,  I had lost the box that contained my collection for posterity that I was saving for the next generation.

One day a month or so ago, Tom was cleaning out the garage and found my box in the attic. I had always envisioned its discovery to unfold like that familiar scene in the movies: The old lady dies and the family gathers at her home, and while everyone is downstairs reminiscing and sharing their stories about how she positively influenced each and every one of their lives, someone--a grandchild maybe?--slips upstairs to the attic.  The light from the lone window in the attic shines a spotlight through the fog of dust and lands on... "Oh, look. A box." After brushing the years of accumulated dirt and dust off the top, the barely-legible letters reveal, "Carol Louise's Stuff." 

Downstairs the news of the discovery brings everything to a halt. "What? You found what? A box containing her stuff!? Really?" The box is carefully carried downstairs--carefully because it's so old that it could fall apart and dump its precious cargo-- and placed on the dining room table. Everyone gathers around to see what treasures lie within.

***

No! You can't have some of what I'm smoking. I know. I know. I was living in a fantasy world. It's going to go down much different than I had envisioned.  I suspect Goodwill and a landfill with be part of the story, but can't an old lady dream?