What’s Buried In My Back Yard?

I took one my mother’s shovels and worked diligently for a week after school in the empty lot across the street. I was on a treasure hunt, certain I would find enough money for a new bike or maybe enough to help the family with our rent. Digging, sifting, turning of piles of dirt yielded little but old bottle caps, nails, and twisted metal. I did find an old bone, and took it home excited that I had found a grave. But Dad told me it was just a dog bone, buried by the neighborhood mutt.

I was reminded of my quest when I read about a man in Austria, who was turning dirt in his back yard and unearthed hundreds of pieces of centuries-old jewelry, some as old as 600 years old.

The trove consisted of more than 200 rings, brooches, ornate belt buckles, gold-plated silver plates and other pieces or fragments, many encrusted with pearls, fossilized coral and other ornaments.

Where did they come from? Did someone hide them — and then forget? Were there bandits, going house to house, and the family treasure was hidden?

What’s buried in my back yard? I could go about with a shovel, like the nine-year old me, looking for similar loot. They have metal detectors and I could be like one of those intense, lonely men with headphones walking along the shore hoping for a big find. But I’m not interested

And I have enough buried in my life anyway. There are plenty of memories — things I never want to think about again. Sins I’ve confessed that still find ways to sneak into my brain at the most in opportune times. Buried back there are words that I wish I had never said, actions I should have never done, bitterness I’ve tried to hide.

I’ll leave the shovel, hanging in the shed. And just let the back yard stay the way it is. I’ve spent too long getting my lawn the way it is anyway.

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