In a somewhat liminal space, dusty & dark, thick with spider silks & a paper wasp nest or two, there are remnants of a lost civilization. Or, so a 9yr old imagines. On the rafters of the garage lay haphazardly strewn sheets of plywood to contain boxes of the distant past. A pretend archaeologist’s dream. Perched precariously 12ft above the cement floor, this was my excavation site.

As unnerved as the next person to feel a web snap across my face, & fearful of stinging insects, the height didn’t bother me. No matter how bone-cracking that floor could be to land on. Small & monkeyish, crawling around digging into cartons of mysterious contents, searching in a grid pattern. A mission to not be terminally dismayed by suburbia & its inherent beigeness.

The cartouche of each box was rather bland: ‘kitchen’ ‘den’ ‘linens’. The hieroglyphs could be misleading though; some sarcophagi were repurposed at a later date. Yet poking around these artifacts was proving to be less compelling than I’d hoped. This ancient civilization was downright dreary with typical household items, albeit many unfamiliar. I found textiles of several eras, saved for sentimental reasons or because my mother had taken up quilting & reused the fabric.

Then I stumbled upon a stash of baby books. I researched my sisters within these 5 tomes as if I’d found a papyrus of The Book of the Dead. There were many photos, pages diligently filled with their exploits, complete histories from birth to approximately 3 yrs old apiece. Then I came to mine. Empty, save for name. The Lost Chronicle! I was going to take this up with management!

Being my folks’ last had its pros & cons, evidently. I was granted more leeway than the others. Spoiled in the free-range style. Yet this book had no record of my childhood milestones. No first steps. No first words. & what looked like no vax. Aside from a circular scar on my shoulder, this lack of account said ‘Hello smallpox! Come on in!’

I was indignant. I mitigated this absence of information by telling myself a cryptic origin story, akin to springing fully-formed from the earth. How else to explain a lack of history? Not to mention the scant photos of me in family albums. There were gaps from one pic to the next, where I jumped from age 1 to 3 to 7 as though I only existed during some prime numbered years. [No wonder I’m camera averse to this day. Lack of exposure.]

This ‘dig’ was seeming a non-starter, no pottery shards or primitive tools, & decidedly unflattering. Balancing on 2-by-4s & plywood, with cobwebs & wasps, my adventure was lacking in wonders. I halfheartedly pawed through a couple more boxes, increasingly losing interest. Then…what’s this?

A zippered brown leather case, shaped like a loaf of bread. It’s difficult to maneuver on the descent. There’s some wobbly moments, but I manage to drop down on my dad’s work bench clutching the loaf. It has no handles, like a man’s shaving kit from olden days. I decide to bring it into the house before opening; my bare feet are cold on the cement & I want to prolong the anticipation.

In the middle of the living room rug I plunk down to unzip this relic. There are a number of small items inside, at first glance incongruous. Fiddling round with a few it dawns on me: these are contraptions to create illusions. I’d stumbled onto a magician’s kit!

There was a cup filled with liquid that didn’t spill when tipped over, a tube from which dozens of colored scarves emerged, some joined metal rings like a large chain, a couple things I couldn’t decipher, & a disappearing-coin mechanism. 

I messed around with this until the secret compartment finally popped open. Inside was a buffalo/Indian head nickel from 1915. I’d never held a coin this old before. All else was eclipsed by this find. Not because I was a collector. It wasn’t currency to me, but a token of my father’s unfathomable past.

In 1969 ‘magician’ didn’t carry the same ‘dork’ connotation that it enjoys today. Not as cool perhaps as the photo of Poppie in aviator shades, hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, sitting on a motorcycle. An inked caption read “Speed Vance.” This new revelation suggested that my father contained multitudes.

Currently I was a 4th grader, in Miss Davis’ class at Des Moines Elementary School. A time-honored class participation ritual called Show & Tell was part of the curriculum. I was nervous about bringing my new treasure to school. It was so small, I was afraid I’d lose it. My sister gave me a tiny, clear plastic box to put it in so it would be harder to misplace. There was a table where all the students were to set their items presented so the others could get a closer look. It was now recess, so I went to pick up my coin & put it safely in my pocket.

“All items are to be displayed throughout the day,” Miss Davis told me. “But it’s so small. I’m afraid it’ll get lost or–” I didn’t want to say ‘stolen,’ but it was implied. She gave a withering look at that pause, & said “It’ll be perfectly fine. The door is locked during recess. It’s the rule of Show & Tell.”

I heaved a huge, regretful sigh, wishing I’d never brought my treasure. Then reluctantly set it back on the table. Though I was the first in the door after recess, my coin was already gone. Miss Davis asked me what was wrong as all the others had taken their seats & I stood staring at the place where it had been. 

When I told her, she asked the class if anyone took my nickel, as if they’d raise their hand! Nobody spoke up. Duh. Then she asked me “Are you sure you didn’t put it away?” She was the only one there as I’d placed it back on the table, the only one who knew I didn’t take it for safekeeping. There’s something rotten in Des Moines. 

This is when I said “I don’t have it, but someone does,” & stared daggers right in her eyes. For all I knew, it could’ve been her. Why my teacher would want it, I can’t say. Simple cruelty? She then replied “Well, I’m sorry. But these things happen.”

That instant I deemed Miss Davis as either heartless or larcenous, as well as viewed all the other students in my class with suspicion. She may’ve thought of it as a teachable moment, & it was. It taught me that the people well-placed to screw you the most are the ones you’re expected to trust. Apt lesson to learn for a youngun’s burgeoning outlook on authority figures.