“In the house of the righteous there is much treasure, but trouble befalls the income of the wicked.” (Proverbs 15:6)
It opened up wide without a squeak. The varnished wood had a shine that had not dulled over the decades of its existence. I wondered how many times my dad had opened it over the years, looking for what would complete him for the day ahead.
The box had sat on top of my dad’s chest of drawers for as long as the place I lived was my parents’ residence: 1607 Thomas Street, Ironton, Ohio. In my growing-up years, the only time I opened it was to see if there was any loose change I could sneak away with. My parents were organized, never leaving a few coins sitting out in the open. I had to be the family thief, a label that carried a lot of Baptist guilt with it and stayed with me long after the clinking coins had disappeared into the cashier’s hand at the neighborhood market. After all, Mallo Cups weren’t free. They came with a price tag.
My dad passed away eight years ago. Thankfully, he went to be greeted by his Maker before COVID made living for many of the elderly unbearable. Dad was a social guy, always willing to get into conversations with people, whether they were in line for a slab of Kahn’s bologna at the Food Fair supermarket, before or after worship at Beulah Baptist Church, or with his next-door Pakistani doctors as they stood together in the front yard. COVID would have killed him. Better to head towards paradise four months short of 90 years of age.
As I scanned the contents of his jewelry box, his friendliness was evident in the mementos. There were Rotary label pins. He loved being a Rotarian. He and my mom even were the host family for a high school exchange student from Finland who had been sponsored by Rotary. Dad made the weekly Rotary Club lunch a priority on his schedule.
In a small slot, I dug out a political campaign button that said: “Nixon Now.” Dad never talked about politics, but I was pretty sure he was a Democrat. Finding a “Nixon Now” button made me wonder whether he had switched at some point, and why. Did Watergate make him consider the direction of the folk in D.C.? Or did things take a turn during a later Republican administration?
Tie clasps. My dad never wore a tie that wasn’t attached to a clasp. Most of them had a pin in the back that pushed through the fabric and anchored the front. One featured the United States Navy. He had served in the Navy in the late 40s as a baker, ready to take to the seas but spared that by the end of the military conflict. Navy defined Dad. He looked forward to the Army-Navy football game each fall so he could cheer the Middies on.
When I removed the top shelf of the jewelry box, I discovered another rare, military-related item underneath: My dad’s Selective Service System registration certificate, his entry document into the Navy. He was patriotic, a proud veteran, and part of a family of veterans. Although I did not enter the military, my older brother did, and Dad was extremely proud of how he had served in Vietnam…even though he had gone the Army way.
Two wristwatches appropriately signaled the value Dad placed on time, specifically being on time. He was organized and elevated the following of a schedule to being close to godliness. One of the watches had a wristband that indicated it had been through a few decades. The other watch could have been worn at state dinner functions if Dad ever went to one…which he didn’t!
Tucked in the back corner was a pearl-handled pocket knife. Dad seemed to always carry one with him in case there was a string that needed to be cut, or a piece of wood that needed a slight trim. He had a custom of gifting a pocket knife to his sons and grandsons. I still have mine, but it’s at the bottom of a catch-all basket, patiently waiting for me to seek its usefulness.
His high school class ring with a bit of tarnish was pushed into a holding section. I had to find a good light to see that its inscription was “Oil Springs High School”, with some kind of creature’s head protruding from the top. Another ring was a gift from the Purina Corporation he worked for in my early childhood years. It said “Salesmanship” on it, indicating the value that Dad put into his work.
There were other pins for other reasons: A Bob Evans farm pin, two State of Ohio pins and one “Oh! Kentucky” piece, a Brasil pin (spelled that way) that must have come from a Rotary exchange of some kind, and an AARP pin that probably was a reward for hitting his 80s.
I almost missed a bracelet that had become camouflaged into the fabric. It had “Laurence Wolfe, Wittensville, KY” inscribed. When I turned it over, I was brought to tears by the name “Jenny” written on the back, my mom’s name. It was a reminder of the love of his life for close to 65 years.
And, finally, there were keys…keys whose only purpose was to reside in the pockets of the jewelry box. One was for a suitcase that has long since disappeared, and the others were homeless. Perhaps Dad left them there for reasons, like to remind us that everyone has a place even though they might have forgotten what it is.
Treasures. Memories. Carriers taking me back to him and how he shaped me into who I am. It made me consider what I’m putting into a jewelry box for my kids and grandkids, not necessarily one with varnished wood and hinges, but memories and values that they will take from my life.
Words from WW Blog 