Somewhere in a backyard in Rapid City, South Dakota is a jelly jar I buried when I was 7 years old. I don’t remember what’s in it, but I bet I could put a shovel in the ground within a foot of it.
I love time capsules. There’s something deeply romantic about leaving a message to the future. A note in a bottle. A nibble of immortality, the hope that anyone will care. “We were here, this was important to us.”
In reality, most time capsules turn out to be disappointments. Those that haven’t been destroyed by water leaks are filled with the most boring antiques imaginable. Coins, proclamations, minutes from a board meeting. Never a singing frog. You could find half the artifacts in better condition at a flea market.
Two famous ones are the Westinghouse Time Capsule, entombed during the 1939 World’s Fair to be opened in the year 6939, and the Crypt of Civilization, sealed inside a former swimming pool at Oglethorpe University in 1940, to be opened in 8113. Both are worth a Web search. I appreciate their creators’ cockeyed optimism.
Hidden in my rebuilt house, inaccessible but protected from the elements, is a signed copy of A Fire Story with a little note and drawing. I like to imagine that whoever finds it, whenever they find it, will take the time to read it and reflect on the life and times of the guy who stashed it. I was here. This was important to me.
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