Memories

Memories

By:Wayne Smith

Dec. 15/06

“Mom! Mom! Come see what I found,” My little 5 year old legs came rushing up the wooden stairs to the back door of our home on 8th avenue in Vancouver. Hearing my call, Mother looked up from her work. I am sure she thought, “Oh bother, what is it now?” Until she saw the little handful of wet paper, I held out to her.

The weather had been wet, as usual, in Vancouver. The damp grass in a vacant, lot near our house had an unusual surprise for me that morning. While wandering about looking for something to do, I spotted a box, tossed out carelessly, by someone wanting a convenient dump site.

The cardboard box was wet, about the size of an apple container, and bore the smell of musty old paper. It contained a hoard, not of money but memories. The kind of memories one collects while traveling. My curious mind led me into someone’s long past journey Through the States and Canada.

Carefully I opened the box and began to wedge apart the driest pieces of paper and post cards. They revealed a world very different from the one I was in at the moment. There were ladies in long skirts, horse drawn carts, and muddy roads with wagon wheel ruts everywhere. Every piece reveled a new treasure.

Fortunately mother shared my early fascination with old pictures and books, happily following me out to the vacant lot, to share the treasure. I will say share, though I am not that was the correct term, for the pictures never reappeared in my life, until many years later. Gathering up what seemed savable, Mom squirreled them away in some dark corner of our house.

As years went by, I would casually mention them to my mother, wondering if I would ever reclaim my little treasure. More years went by, until and I think mom sensed if something happened to her, meaning she died, I may never get my post cards back. Finally at the tender age of 55, I was blessed with the return of my ancient pictures. They were a real treat to look through again. Some are 100 years old. Many, move forward in time, showing early days of color photography, with city scenes of early Vancouver and Stanly park.


Today, Browsing through the small handful of pictures, sharing thoughts and stories with friends, the five year old in me says, “one mans junk is another mans treasure,” and the fifty five year old says, “thanks for the memories.”