The Treasure Chest

The antique rocking chair finally arrived, a long-promised heirloom that had traveled through several family members before being handed down to me. It was as if everyone had forgotten their commitment until they were tired of the sad chair. I wasn’t there to claim it when my grandmother passed; her verbal wishes had been dismissed in the absence of a written will. In the end, people remember what suits them best. Most of her belongings were distributed, leaving only a few old trunks, which I claimed just in time. My father had snatched them up before they disappeared into the ether of family disputes. Unfortunately, the rocking chair had already been spirited away before he could lay claim.

The chair showed its age. Its rockers were chewed and splintered, the fabric worn and frayed. Yet, I loved that chair with all its creaks and cracks; it molded perfectly to my body. In my mind’s eye, I could still see generations of my family settled into its embrace. My great-grandmother was the original owner, a spry, petite woman with deep, soulful eyes. I had no comprehension of the hardships she faced during her ninety years; all I remembered was her warm smile and the way she offered me candy during my visits.

The trunks sat in my basement, unopened for years. I recalled how they once housed colorful fabrics for my grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine—her prized treadle that, sadly, I lacked the skills to operate. I could barely sew on a button. The chests were large and bulky, filled with fabric scraps, books, and various odds and ends, shuffled from place to place as I moved. They never seemed significant until the rocking chair rekindled my memories.

On a drizzly, gray October morning, I resolved to clean out the basement. The weather outside was uninviting, perfect for tackling indoor chores. As I rummaged through the clutter, I spotted one of the old trunks. I remembered playing with it at my grandmother's house, pretending it was a treasure chest. Inside, I found the Catholic pictures of the Blessed Mother Mary still taped to the cover. Opening the trunk transported me back to my seven-year-old self, where the familiar sight sparked childhood memories. Nestled in the removable box shelf, there were two large vintage portraits of unknown family members, likely from the early 1900s. They depicted teenage boys, their identities lost to time. I assumed other relatives had similarly forgotten who they were. I considered restoring the pictures, but today wasn’t the day for that.

I removed the top insert to dig deeper into the chest. I recognized the flannel fabric my grandmother had obtained from a children’s pajama factory that had long since closed. The remnants were the same material my grandmother used to make blankets that still warmed me. There were also old sewing patterns, remnants of a craft that had faded with time. At the bottom, I found a non-denominational Bible from the 1970s, which struck me as odd since we were Catholic. Then I remembered my grandmother often listening to Christian worship sermons on the radio and watching Catholic Mass on TV. The family’s Catholic Bible, which would have recorded our genealogy, must have been claimed by those who would never appreciate its significance.

Disappointment washed over me as I emptied the trunk. I had hoped for some hidden treasure or secrets, but deep down, I knew there would be none. My ancestors had worked hard, endured suffering, and passed away. Their stories lingered in the air, but now it was too late to ask anyone about them.

I exhaled loudly as if my frustration could alter reality. Memories surged to the surface, only to be drowned by a wave of sadness. Everyone is gone. I realized I might have been searching for pieces of myself in that trunk, fragments of the people who shaped my existence. I wiped down the trunk’s interior, clearing away dust and cobwebs that had settled in the corners. When I tipped the trunk onto its side, I heard a loud thunk. Setting it upright, I noticed that there was a false bottom and it had fallen out, revealing something cloth-covered. I unraveled it to find an incredibly old journal—my great-grandmother’s.

…

Monday, October 4, 1897

Today is my wedding day. As Victorian etiquette dictates, I chose Monday for wealth. The rhyme goes: “Mondays for wealth, Tuesdays for health, Wednesday the best of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, Saturday for no luck at all.” I eagerly await my new life with my husband, though it will be a while before we have a place of our own, especially with the harsh winter approaching. He will be working in the woods and staying at the lumber camp once harvest is over and will not return until spring. I will stay at the farm with his family until his return.

Saturday, December 25, 1897

My beloved is still in the woods, and I know I’m with child. I feel it’s a boy. My husband will be so proud when he returns home. My joy this Christmas comes from knowing we have been blessed with a child. As I sit by the fire, I recall Virginia O’Hanlon’s letter to the Sun newspaper in New York. The article was published on September 21, 1897. Seemed a bit early for Christmas, but young Miss Virgina was very concerned about the upcoming holiday. My cousin sent me a copy, which was the perfect gift. “Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias … There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.” This article stirred my own childlike wonder even at 21 years old. I am with child and feeling quite alone. The weight of solitude presses down on me. My faith keeps me going through this cold winter as I cling to the hope of spring.

Friday, July 8, 1898

Today, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. My husband is back to working the family fields, preparing for the winter ahead, and soon will return to logging. I will miss him but will cherish our time together until then. Thank God I have his family to help me.

Tuesday, October 4, 1898 

It’s our first wedding anniversary, and while I feel happy with him, it has not come easily. I didn’t anticipate spending so much time apart while raising a small child. The baby is now three months old and sleeping through the night, which brings me some relief. As harvest nears its end, my husband will soon leave again for another long, cold winter at the logging camp. He promised he would try to return for Christmas, but I know I’ll be alone again with an infant, living with his family without him. They have been kind to me, and I’m grateful for their support; I cannot imagine living on my own with a child while he is away for six months.

Sunday, December 25, 1898 

The past few weeks have been a struggle. The weather has been brutal, and my baby has been sick for a week now, suffering from a terrible cough and fever. My mother-in-law is here with us, but the doctor is unreachable, so we rely on faith and home remedies. We’ve been up around the clock tending to the baby, and the snowstorm has prevented my husband from returning. Once again, he is spending Christmas with loggers deep in the woods. It’s a lean Christmas this year, but I managed to finish making another blanket for the baby to keep him warm. His fever has finally broken, and he sleeps more soundly now. Thank God for that.

Saturday, July 8, 1899 

We celebrated our son’s first birthday today. He brings me so much joy, but he doesn’t quite know who his father is, having been away for months. His uncle, who is always around, receives more affection from him. While I understand we need the money, I can’t help but wish we could be together as a family more often. At times, I feel like a tenant in a stranger’s house rather than a married woman with a young family.

Wednesday, October 4, 1899

Today marks our second anniversary, and I’m expecting another child. This time of year feels bittersweet, as I wish my husband could be here for the baby’s birth in March. It will be another lonely Christmas for me; I will be six months along. He seems so distant lately, not the same since he returned in April.

I went out to the barn to bring him something to eat while he tended to the horses. He had been eerily quiet as he brushed down their coats. Suddenly, he blurted out that there had been a horrible accident over the winter on a logging drive across a frozen lake. The horse-drawn sled was overloaded with massive logs, and the ice broke, leading to a devastating loss. They couldn’t pull the horses out. They sank and drowned. He fell silent again, his gaze fixed on the horses. I wanted to cry, but I turned away and went back inside, not wanting him to see my weakness.

While our horses are primarily for farm labor, we treat them well. What a tragedy it must have been. The loggers didn’t want to wait until the ice melted to transport the logs, opting for the ice road on the lake, which couldn’t bear the weight. I cannot imagine those poor helpless horses being pulled into the freezing waters, held down by the weight of the logs and sled. My heart breaks. Life can be so cruel.

Monday, December 25, 1899

This Christmas is better. My baby is healthy and happy. The winter is milder than last year, though I feel my condition. I expect this child will be born in March. My husband would like another boy, but I dream of a girl to help with chores and share my skills. We would make a great team. Yet I feel a shadow of discomfort. I miss my husband’s presence. I am not feeling the joy of Christmas this year. Everything seems fine, yet something is off.

Sunday, February 18, 1900

Today, a team of horses pulling a sled arrived unexpectedly. My brother-in-law answered the door while I was in the kitchen preparing dinner. When I glanced out the window, I froze in terror at the sight of men carrying a coffin. My heart sank. I knew my husband was not among them. A scream escaped my lips as the dreadful truth hit me. He was the one in that coffin. There had been a serious logging accident, and he had succumbed to his injuries. The priest had been at the camp that morning and was able to administer last rites. I was grateful that his soul was at rest, but mine was in turmoil. With a one-and-a-half-year-old child and another on the way, the weight of my grief was unbearable. I was widowed at 23 years old. What was I to do? What was to become of me? Where was I to go? I am sure I cannot bear the pain and grief.

Sunday, March 18, 1900

My son was born healthy, and I named him after his father. I wore black every day, consumed by grief, yet I knew I had two small children to care for under my in-laws’ roof. I vowed to do better for them. My newborn seemed to carry a melancholy that mirrored my own, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had absorbed my sorrow, making it a part of him as well. I whispered to him that I was sorry for his pain and turmoil, but life will go on and we will survive.

Sunday, September 25, 1904 

Today, I married my late husband’s younger brother. He treats my children as his own and is incredibly kind to me. We all lost a loved one on that tragic day over four years ago, but we have dedicated ourselves to creating a new life together. The boys are now six and four years old, and they adore their uncle, who has become their father. They have no memory of the past, allowing us to forge a fresh start as a family.

---

I couldn’t read further. I was overwhelmed with emotion and flipped to the last pages of the journal, near the end of her life. I wanted to know how the story ended, even though I already knew.

March 1962

Not today, little one. The doctor said you would not survive, but I refuse to lose you. I have witnessed enough in my long life, and I am old. Life will not be easy for you, but it will go on. You will find a way, even when things often do not make sense.

April 1967 

Ah little one, you visited today, and I remember how much you loved the pink candies and my rocking chair. You are barely five years old, yet I remember that brutal winter when they gave up on you. I won’t be here to see you grow up, but I will watch over you. Enjoy the rocking chair. Always remember where you came from. Your roots run deep and your family is strong. By the time you read this, you will understand. You should have the rocking chair and this journal in your possession. It’s been a journey for all of us. Everything should be as it was meant to be.

…

The last entry made my heart ache. I was so young, but I do remember her vividly. I’d never really known my great-grandmother well because I’d lived out of state, but I felt a profound connection to her through her words. I still see her in that chair. She had faced so many trials, and the rocking chair she had once used now embraced me. Tears welled up as I clutched the journal to my chest, feeling her spirit surrounding me. The trunk, filled with old scraps and memories, seemed less like a burden now and more like a bridge to a past that had shaped my family’s history.

It was time to stop worrying about my own story and focus on the legacy left behind by those who came before me. As I returned the journal to its place, I resolved to honor my family’s history by sharing their tales. Their stories were my stories, woven into the fabric of my life, much like the worn threads of the rocking chair cradling me.

I settled into the chair, letting it rock gently, as if my ancestors were watching over me, guiding me through this journey of remembrance and renewal. In that moment, I felt a sense of peace, knowing that I was never truly alone; my family's spirit lived on within me.

THE END