I do not know how it got there.
Someone once told me there used to be another house sitting below the hill on the property and perhaps the demolition of that house had something to do with it.
I am not sure.
I suppose it does not really matter how the treasure came to be buried in the makeshift driveway and on the hill to the side of my grandparent’s house.
I am not sure when I discovered it was there, but once I did, digging for treasure became a favorite activity at their house, second only to being pushed on the hammock. Oh and milkshakes, of course milkshakes were of the utmost importance.
I used rocks with the most pointed edges I could find to dig into the dirt and expose the treasure, but careful not to break it. After getting a good bit of dirt dug up around it, I used my fingers to loosen the treasure from what would have been it’s permanent burial spot. That smell of freshly dug soil still puts me back on my bare knees in that driveway, diggin’.
Sometimes the treasure was green, sometimes clear and a few rare pieces would be blue.
I packed it away in my denim be-dazzled purse, strung sideways across my body, and emerged from my digging responsibilities with gravel and dirt encrusted knobby knees and dirty fingernails that could have rivaled my Pap’s.
I don’t remember showing my grandparents the treasure or telling them what I was doing. I don’t remember them asking either, but I’m sure they knew. They always do, don’t they? Perhaps they just wanted to let me think I was truly discovering treasure, rather than just broken pieces of colored glass from an unknown source.
It is a damn miracle I didn’t cut myself.
What I didn’t realize though, was that my treasures were sitting just behind me in metal lawn chairs on my favorite hill in the whole world.
I still like to dig for treasure. These days, it’s just usually done with a box of old photographs, cheap beer and good country music.