Box of Rocks

I heard a story awhile ago about a young man who was cleaning out his grandfather’s garage.  Having lived through the depression the old man had saved most everything just in case…  One box stood out: “Too Short to Save,” was written in big letters on the side. The box was filled with small pieces of wood that were too small to hang onto, and yet…

Clearly, there are some things worth saving. But what do you hang onto? Most home workbenches have a jar or bin filled with miscellaneous nails, nuts, bolts, etc. One time when my son, Nathan, was still living at home he walked in on me sorting a shiny heap of mismanaged metal fasteners. When I explained what I was doing, he asked if he could help. When I consented, he grabbed the bucket used to hold small metal odds and ends for recycling and swept the entire assemblage into it. He then suggested it would be much easier to start over with a trip or two to the hardware store when I need something. I couldn’t disagree.

Most things we hang onto eventually end up as refuse or recycled. There’s an old story about a man who was startled in the middle of the night by a voice telling him to go outside and fill his pockets with stones and in the morning he would be both happy and sad. He did as instructed and went back to sleep (how I can’t imagine with rocks in his pockets). In the morning he found that the stones had turned to diamonds. He was happy that he had taken as much as he had, but sad he had not taken more.

The other day I was going through some boxes of folders and files expecting to find rocks and refuse, but instead I found some real treasure. When my two kids were little, about five and three, I started to keep a journal of our family life. I wrote down what we did, who we saw and what those funny little kids said. For a brief period of time I had recorded the early years of my childrens’ lives.

As I read through my scribbling, I, like the man with the rocks, was both glad and glum. I was happy that I had written down as much as I did for as long as I did, but I was so disappointed in myself for not doing it earlier and more regularly. But worst of all, I had completely stopped doing it after a few years.  That is a regret I will carry to my grave.

When I read my notes I was reminded when I had given my son and daughter horsey-rides up the stairs after having their teeth brushed by their mother. There was a sentence or two describing when I carried my sleeping son back to bed because he had once again fallen asleep on the floor at the top of the stairs where he could hear his mother and my voice. I was happy to read about when I had given my daughter math problems over the phone because she had called my office excited to tell me she now “got multiplication.”

The writing was rough and unedited. Many of the sentences of our early family life were short and choppy, but all are worth saving.  I typed out seven pages from these notes and this year for Christmas I am going to give them to my wife, daughter and son. I’m sorry I don’t have more; I must have had rocks in my head.

There is an old Chinese proverb that states, “The faintest ink is better than the best memory.” Uh-huh.