Treasures in a Shoebox

Yesterday I traveled with my dear friend Beverly to visit a lady who was celebrating her 94th birthday. Maybe "celebrating" isn't the right word. Let's just say she was aware of its being her 94th birthday, but she hasn't been in a very celebratory frame of mind. She was widowed only recently after more than 60 years of marriage, and she's been having some health issues...and there are lots of sad memories in winter's waning light.

But we wanted to acknowledge her birthday and cheer her up a bit, and it was a long drive, but it seemed important, and I'm glad we went.Anyway, it's not like we were heading off to some dreary inner city apartment complex. This particular lady lives in a rather exclusive little beachfront community, and as we sat at her table, we could look out and see the shine and shimmer of the sea right in front of us. Occasionally we glimpsed surfers, mirage-like in the distance, or some fit young person running blissfully on the shore. The room was filled with sunlight, and there were vases of fragrant roses on the table.

Beverly and I had stopped at Trader Joe's on our way down and put together a simple, portable lunch along the lines of bread and cheese and olives, and the makings for a sort of berry shortcake that was less than successful but well meant. The birthday lady rallied for the occasion and was talkative and gracious. Beverly presented her with a lavish bouquet of protea. I'd bought a "growing kit" for paper whites at Trader Joe's, a less auspicious choice: when I took off the wrapping, it was basically an ugly brown bulb and a lump of dirt in a cup, more promise than present, a feeble hope. But maybe it will bloom.

The birthday lady talked about brave, adventurous people she has known, and sometimes she was wistful, describing her one attempt at surfing, for example.

"I was such a fraidy- cat," she said. "Now when I look at the things other people have accomplished and I look at my own little life, I feel like I've done nothing. Nothing at all."

Well, that line of thinking never goes well. Beverly and I were quick to point out the paintings by this lady hanging on the wall, the beauty she has created.

We may have mentioned, too, the ripple effect of an ongoing nonprofit foundation she and her late husband started. We left unsaid the fact that so much of what we "do" in life is just learn and try and deal with things, some of which are difficult beyond imagining. It isn't fair to judge ourselves so harshly.

And sometimes we just sit in the afternoon sunlight with friends who bring flowers or a little cup of dirt.Then the birthday lady surprised us with gifts. She pulled out a shoebox filled with trinkets and treasures and invited us to each choose two things.

"It's just old stuff," she said. "Costume jewelry, fake, but fun. What am I gonna do with all this anymore? Time to give it away."

And it was fun.

For a few minutes, Beverly and I were like little kids, hunting through beads and baubles, finding what spoke to us. And our childlike pleasure made our birthday lady happy. Each of the objects we took has a story attached to it, and that's what gives them value. The story stretches back to times in which they were first acquired and worn, but now encompasses yesterday's birthday visit too, and someday we will pass our trinkets on to others.

But the most poignant and lovely treasures in the shoebox were two things we left behind: tiny photos from long ago of our lady friend and her late husband as they were when they were young. There she is with blonde curls, holding a dog, and he by the sea no doubt. These had been removed from a locket that she'd given away earlier to someone else.

“People want to put their own pictures into a locket, not mine," she said.

I don't know. I think it's nice to see the old ones too.