Treasure Trove

When someone saw a rainbow, they would call us to see it. How do you describe a rainbow? I don't think writers or poets can adequately do that to those who have never seen one. Artists and photographers preserve them for those who might forget. But then, who can forget a rainbow?

The arc cascades to a distant place. Rumors say there's gold where it touches the ground. We sought it out but never could walk that far. I thought at first it was because I couldn't cross the street. Later it might have been because someone closer to the end found it first. Rainbows disappear when the gold is taken away.

Tooth fairies carried little bags of coins and paid for baby teeth put under pillows. Small children not yet comprehending the full power of greed awoke in the morning after a bout with pain to find a shiny penny or a piece of silver in place of the tooth lain there. We might have yanked out the rest of them ourselves. What price for riches would, for some, be compromised in later life?

Northern lights had their own reward simply by seeing them. "Have you seen such a sight as the Northern Lights...?" Falling stars might beg a wish. There were no guarantees except that the whole idea of wishes-made was silly but we didn't know that. The chance of spotting a meteor was rare so those in charge of superstitions expanded the belief by us to make hopes come true.

Star in evening, star so bright;

dare I make a wish tonight?

We sailed on a ship of imagination.

Some of our possessions were bought for us by others. They might be found in the toy-box. Others, less durable, came to us at Halloween. Some came to us as gifts at Christmastide, at birthdays, at visits — by relatives. Possession carried the chance of a pattern for living: unbridled greed. "It's mine" entered dialogues as well as selfish calls to attention: "me, me, me" and "me first." Wealth might pass us by if we don't fight for it.

My treasury might have been described as full of splendiforous things that no one coveted. I was a collector. A later generation would warp the meaning of that word.

From my immediate surroundings I gathered acorns for my trove. They shared space on the bureau top with marbles. I might carry a few in my pocket with other valuables: washers, some string, a ball of foil peeled from discarded cigarette packs, some pennies — and the coin-of-the-realm, ball-bearings and bee-bees, my picket-knife, maybe a stone.

When we went to the seashore I'd go exploring at the water's edge and find scallops and mussels and little clams and shiny little pink and blue and yellow pebbles. I'd put them all into a little box and export them to my winter home in Germantown. I'd show them to my chums who had stayed at home and weren't familiar with stuff like that. They might have gone to the Wissahickon and found some arrowheads (of sorts). Trades and negotiaitions were possible before the school year started so we could all get some attention from the right people in the classroom. There were risks there. The show-and-tell infection hadn't bothered our teachers. Miss Schmidt or another teacher might grab up what they mistook for "toys" and put it all in the drawer-of-no-return.

When I went to Wentz's farm I was sure to bring back corn kernels shucked from cobs and grain scooped from the bin and feathers that could be shaved into quills. Small fragile things were collected in the wild: violets, buttercups, Stars of Bethlehem and other wildflowers that would be made into miniature bouquets for mom.

Collectors who persist might become rich. It depends on their affection and how clever they are. I collected stamps for a while. My collection was a pile of common issues that evolved to rubbish. Probably billions of them are still around. But I treated each one as priceless. I studied each one and when I got stamps from other lands I pondered over them with the belief that they were rare finds. I was getting familiar with foreign and mysterious places. It seemed that impoverished countries had the prettiest stamps.

George Washington's visage appeared on more stamps than anyone elses. Ben Franklin was on a lot of stamps, too. So was Hitler and he always looked grumpy.

My coin collection was more valuable than the cancelled stamps. The war's booty filtered down to me when my uncles returned from conquered lands. They gave me big English pennies and shillings and farthings all with King George or his father engraved on the obverse. I had a box full of kronin and ore and peso and lire and franc and mark and yen. Some were valid and could be spent in other worlds: none at Ed McCall's store. Others were useless because their mints were owned by losers in Germany, Italy and Japan. Both the good and the bad went into my iron box. Since I couldn't spend any of it, it all became an equal contradiction of the reality of the adult world. It was all equally valuable to me.

Older uncles gave me older coins that once were spent here, some half-pennies, two-cent pieces and three cent pieces, and indian-head pennies. My collection was an honest reflection of my economic class. I never had any silver-dollars or gold pieces. They would have been seized for more practical dispositions and spent for food. Now and then I would find Liberty Head nickels, dimes, quarters and half-dollars in change and I would save them.

I put my baseball cards in a shoe-box. They came out for trades and our favorite stars wouldn't go to the block easily. They came out when we wanted to check statistics. They came out when we flicked them in primitive gambling parties. They're all gone, now. Don't dream about them being in landfills. The trash men took them to the incinerator.

Marbles were the currency of boys. We carried them in little sacks and gambled our glassies and aggies. If we lost them we felt morose. When we won we savored our triumph and treated our winnings like jewelry. Nickels and quarters weren't quite as precious. Our excess store was put in a cigar-box.

I've made a survey.

Kids don't play marbles any more. Marbles are collectibles. They're found in flea-markets and auctions these days.

There's no dirt to play on. The world is covered with asphalt and concrete. The kids don't trade baseball cards either. They don't even touch them. They buy them sealed in plastic. They save them in the hope of becoming millionaires.

My generation saw toys as toys. Today toys might be put away when they are bought as investments for buyers and sellers who don't know how to have fun unless it's screwing someone. If you take a toy out of its box it's worthless, they say. I say they've spoiled the idea of fun.

Collectors in later life reflect the soul. Soul? Keep an eye on those people. They're capable of doing to "friends" what they'd do to strangers.