Lessons from a jar
I wrote some of my deepest secrets on a piece of notebook paper, carefully folded the sheet, placed it in an empty canning jar, and screwed the lid on tight. I then dug a hole about a foot deep out behind my father’s utility house, placed the jar in the hole, and filled the hole with dirt. My plan was to return to it at some unspecified time in the future to see if my fears had come to pass and if my dreams had come true.
Being 10 years old and having homework to do, baseball games to play, clover to lie in, a creek to play in, books to read, baseball cards to collect, a dog to pass the time with, and a bike to ride, I soon forgot all about the jar that was buried in our backyard.
Until one day some months (maybe even a couple of years) later the memory of the jar hit me out of nowhere and I rushed outside, retrieved a shovel—and walked around the yard trying to remember exactly where I had hidden my treasure, since the falling pine straw had made one spot indistinguishable from another. After a few false starts, I finally found the spot. I knew it was the spot when the shovel broke the glass jar.
