Mark took the day off so we could landscape our front
yard. We had the plants and the plans, so all we needed to do was dig in the
right spot. But as I started digging the first hole near the side of our house,
my shovel hit something mysteriously hard about a foot under the soil. I was
convinced it was the decrepit sewer pipe attached to our 83 year-old bungalow.
But as we carefully bore deeper into the soil, we unearthed an old rusty tin
box. I was nervous. Is this some child's poor Jack Russell Terrier or am I about
to be rich!? I had to know. With soiled gardening gloves and a beer, we moved
next to our pile of mulch in the driveway to investigate our little tin of wonder.
The hinged lid easily opened to reveal a tattered post card postmarked April
7, 1910, which proudly featured the Spokane Central Fire Station. A little deeper
sat a fading black-and-white family photograph framed on the steps of a Portland
front porch. On the back it read, "I'm sending a Kodak picture of us taken
on Christmas day 1923. This is the last one we have left."
We had ourselves a time capsule.
Without a moment to waste, I systematically removed a beat-up liquor vial, two
well worn dominos, a key, a glass marble, a wooden toy block, a couple of coat
buttons and a 1928 nickel to reveal a folded envelope which rested at the bottom
of the decaying box. I brushed the dirt away so I could read the envelope, which
smelled like an old library book and wore stains like it had survived a few
Portland winters. On the outside, our address was delicately written in fountain
pen. But the parcel wasn't flat, so I tore it open like a kid on Christmas day.
Inside, a tri-folded letter remained perfectly creased, but I quickly threw
it to Mark so I could get to the real treasure—a small folded envelope,
stained and musty and perplexingly uneven. I turned it over to see if my North
Portland ancestors had written a small clue to my future. And there, written
in the same delicate fountain pen, was my name.
For a brief moment, my synapses misfired. I could not grasp how my name could
be buried 18 inches under the earth. But then I knew and my stomach fluttered.
My heart pounded. With my mouth gaping, I turned to Mark. And with a nervous
smile, he unfolded the letter I had recently brushed aside to divulge, in the
same delicate fountain pen, the words, 'Will you marry me?"
My hesitation had nothing to do with my unequivocal answer. I was simply confused.
As a woman who predicts the ending to every movie, I surely would have seen
this coming. Somehow I was convinced that this proposal was going to happen
the following day at our romantic weekend in the gorge. Not here amongst the
dirt and the weeds.
As soon as I recovered from the surprise, I uttered my answer, "Of course."
Mark smiled then began to laugh. For the first time, he had fooled me; I didn't
know the ending to this movie.
