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Treasure
by Rebekah King
My boys think I am crazy! For some reason
they don’t quite understand the excitement in
the find, the pumping adrenaline, the thrill of
discovery, the heart stop—in finding treasure.
Sure they will pan for gold in the creek with me
and search the woods and abandoned barns
for tossed out treasures of rusty cans, old signs,
weathered tobacco sticks. Going out after a good
rain to find an old Coca—Cola bottle is tops as
the curvy silhouettes emerge. From bones, to
feathers, and special rocks, you just never know
what’s below your hurried steps, and the boys
never quite know what their Mom is going to
drag home next.
Gathered one by one, the treasures fill the
boxes resting on the gardening shelves in the
garage. An opened box remembers the science
fair wherein we identified the skulls of the
opossum, the red fox, cat, dog, skunk, squirrel—
from the largest in the collection a cow skull to
the smallest of the woodpecker—these crowned
a winning display. The two deer skulls, one
a 6 point, one an 8 point gracefully aged to a
beautiful pure white are favorites. Found when
my little ones and I were playing in the sandbox,
Matthew walked to the tree line to look for a
stick and called out, “Look, Mom!” His delight
far more priceless than the staring skull that
brings a smile, a treasured memory.
Now most finds are acceptable to my children,
but the bones—well, let’s just say, the bones
threaten nightmares! Just outside the basement
door rests an overflowing wheelbarrow of bones
collected over time. Full rib cages with tough,
dried sinew and matted bristles of gray, brown
hair holding the curving spine, long pointing
ribs, and hollowed chest cavity excite a tangible
anatomy lesson for me, yet a tortured sight to my
boys. Ha! None of my boys give hope of a medical
career. Oh my goodness! When the dogs bring up
a leg bone with the joints still mobile, the boys
run away from the leg that can no longer chase.
Amidst the specimens, the boys are truly the
funniest creatures ever! Sincerely grossed out
over my finds they remain, but you just wait
until their friends or cousins come over. I’m
not sure if they love to get reactions from the
squealing "oohs" and "ahhs" or whether they
love to reveal just how weird their Mom is! “Hey
my Mom brings home road kill! What about your
Mom?!?!?” Ha! I assume they may earn a few
extra points with that one, and grossing out their
friends from my finds remains top priority.
Along with the bones, there’s a feather
from the red-tailed hawk who watches over
the pasture where the cows graze in the
early morning sunlight yet huddle under the
perimeter’s tree line for afternoon shade. The full
fish skeletons collected from under the bridge
covering Wad Creek where the stalactites hang
and drip stalagmites. You can always remember
their names as stalactites cling from the ceiling.
The “c” in both words bring an easy differential
remembrance from the stalagmite. There’s
the empty snail shells and turtle shells of the
painted, snapping, eastern box, and slider. My
favorite remains the shell of the spotted turtle, a
rarity for sure. The empty clam shells coated in
shimmering iridescent splendor remind of a fun
afternoon shared on the banks of Jordan Lake.
“Do you ever search the creek for treasures?”
Someone hollers over. The creek is low, slowed
down from its normal swirling and gurgling; the
softness in the gentle waters draws a new friend
to its banks. Looking up from my thoughts, we
meet at the front of the driveway where the creek
passes through. We need no introduction, as my
friend begins her show and tell of treasures from
her iPhone screen. We’ll call her Julie, a kindred
spirit, whose treasured finds definitely have me
beat, no bones about it.
From her arrowheads, to tools, and other
Native American finds of all shapes and sizes,
Julie tells of the search, the evening walks after
a long day of work, the price tag that comes
along with the rarity. Connecting over our
shared experiences, time slips away into other
obligations. We agree on a date to talk over
mochas at Buggy Town and soon enough settle
outside in the cool breeze to guard her treasures
that lie buried in the trunk of her car.
Arranged in collections of types, eras, shapes
and sizes—incredibly all were found here! Right
here around town, in the neighboring field,
in the erosion created by a sudden Sandhills’
thunderstorm discovery awaits! She holds an
exceptional, valuable point from the Paleo era of
10-15,000 years ago, the oldest type of arrowhead
to find. Each piece has a story. An exact place.
A time. A remembrance. The finds become a
part of our heart and soul as passion drives the
search. I discover I am not alone in my wonder.
My house is up for sale; our land will soon
belong to another. Along with my friend, I’ll
miss my special places that grew my collections.
The place near the garden where the blueberries
grow and the swing rests under the embrace of
the huge oak tree. The same drops its acorns
in fall over the garden shed calling us out to
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hear the encounters as chimes tickling the
silver metal roof. The path through the woods
where my little ones gathered up the sparkling
quartz of rose, clear, or smoky gray opens to
a collection of downed trees aging gracefully
from their fall from greatness offers a wealth
of treasure. Abounding under their spread, the
rhinoceros beetles, rolly pollies, and stink bugs
join the 540 other species of North Carolina
bugs and insects. Have a science project? Need a
bug collection? Need a molten cicada shell? This
is your place.
And my favorite place of all time—the creek
that either dwindles or swells with the weather
forecast. I watch the water. In the falling descent,
the water flows over the rocks into a melody of
song. However the still water rests silent even
when the water bugs skim the surface dipping,
diving, and landing in pleasant instinct. There
is a large smooth rock submerged from where
the snapping turtle watches, the rotting log
where the crayfish play, and the swimming hole
where the boys splash. There’s a place where we
imagine dinosaur tracks, the falls where we glide
with the water, the narrow spot, the only spot,
wherein we can jump the creek to the other side,
and the hooks in the trees on either bank that
sway the hammock. The endless adventures
found in this creek will be missed.
As I remember the happy times, I realize
the true treasures aren’t the “things” but rather
the times shared with loved ones. The getting
lost in the wonder; sweeter still the finding
of our way home. The laughter in trying to
escape the slippery clay and devouring mud of
the creek bank while the blue dragonflies dart
effortlessly. The offered hand pulling through
the undergrowth of thorns snagging our pants
on the way to the abandoned homestead on
the hill—the one with the broken dolls, trashed
furniture, beadboard walls of shelter where the
bright green bamboo stands strong and straight
out the screen door.
Ready to find a new home, the boxes holding
our finds are merely testaments of good times
shared in God’s great big world. The talks on
walks, the hearts joined in adventure, the blazing
pinks shared at sunset with red, blue, and purple
ice pops—these are the true treasures.
As the boys and I leave our homeplace and
make our way down new paths, we are the
closer, the better, the braver in understanding
the true treasures of life. For the unknown steps
ahead, may the delight of discovery find us
brave enough to travel each new adventure with
courage, love, and wonder.
For the next generation who dare to brave our
beloved woods, I think I’ll leave some goodies
along the tree line just past the sandbox where
the children play. I can hear it now, “Look, Mom!
Maybe these are dinosaur bones!”
Or better yet, “Look what I found, boys!”
“Ewww! Gross, Mom!”
A chase, screams, then laughter culminating
into a soft tumble onto the blades of grass all
breathless, loved, and safe. Treasured. ��
Paleo Era Point.
No. 130 The Pinehurst Gazette, Inc. p.3