Buried Treasure 

Sunday I arrived in the pirate’s cove.  Ok, my pervy friends, not that cove. This would be the one withher secret treasure.  Yeah, sorry,I’m not making it any better am I?

Ok, fine. When you’re done giggling, I’ll continue.

Now?

How bout now?

Ok, I’m trudging on. It’s what I do when I’m buried under word banks. I slap on my lexiconshoes, and wade to the other side. So far the Queen and I played in the wordy wonderland, and built walls,played fort, and tossed verb balls—so to speak.

See, The Pirate is moving. I’ve told you this.  She’s also a planning dervish. Iarrived at her house and everything was boxed.

“uhm, where do I sleep? “

“Box #33.28 contains bedding and a quilt.”

“Ok, where should I lay them out?”

“Oh, no. Sleep on the box. It’s soft.”

Yeah, she’s ready to go.  I thought I was a freak about these things, but she makes melook like a college intern.  She’simpressive.

Yeah, that I do mean in more ways than one.

While I sat on her lone sofa in the empty living room, Shemoved a clear Rubbermaid tote over to me. “Check this out.”

“Ok…”

It was her booty trove: pictures, and paraphernalia from hercollege days.  Articles andadornments that made the pirate a queen filled the box.

“Most Cognizant: Mrs. Henley’s Third grade class.”

“Wow! You werewith it back then.” It was like examining the stepping-stones leading to theQueen’s dais. These are the events that made her who she is, commemorated inmemorabilia. 

The clippings, and drawings didn’t mean as much to me as thepictures.  And as a visitor to hercove, they didn’t mean as much to me as they did to her.  After all, these were the stages setbefore we met.  They made her thequeen that drives me wild, but I couldn’t appreciate the journey itself. Thatwas her climb.

My climb lays in a similar box in Southern California. Mywalk is in Avon cardboard of articles and adornments that meant nothing to herduring her visit.  Oh, she looked.She admired the awards, and clippings, and laughed at the mullet, but did sheknow what made me business in the front, and party in the back?  So to speak.

“Most Mindful: Mrs. Frey’s Third Grad Class.”

That was my path.

When you look at my trail in the snow, you’ll see multiple printscoming and going and wrapping around mine creating the double helix of others who’veshaped my life. 

We both looked in each other’s different picture box anddrew out similar photos.

“So why did you marry your ex?”

And there it was. Who threw the first snowball? Did it matter?  It was aline in the snow, and we’d eventually cross it.  She answered first. That was either a sign of Pirate bravery,or Blogger chivalry, that didn’t matter, because I was going to need to form myown snow ex. 

We laid out and drew our pictures. It didn’t matter howpretty; we were drawing for snow accuracy.  Like in other aspects, our impressions were different. Thelesson’s we learned, and the lessons that drew us there to begin with. 

One thing remained the same: the story ended the same way,and like the rest of the items in our individual boxes: it drew us together.

Despite our differences, we found many similarities. Wefound that both paths, no matter how diverse, had brought us to one location,and that was a place we could share.

Now, about that pirate cove…