Small Treasures From the Past
December 2nd 2006


Clearing out my garage I discover, among books and papers, a small cardboard box the size of a teapot. Opening it I feel a breath of stale air upon my face, an exhalation from the past, from thirty years ago when I packed a collection of childhood treasures into the box. How they survived the numerous purgings of an itinerant adulthood I cannot say, but out they tumble now, chattering their stories.

The first object is a small, green, wooden money box with decorative metal brackets at the corners and a broken clasp. The money box is heavy, filled to overflowing with small coins from Holland, Canada, America, Thailand. There are a few Belgian centimes and a couple of Deutschmarks.

This moneybox was my father’s. He retrieved it from his family home in 1970, during the one trip he made back to Holland after immigrating. The collection of coins was gathered during that holiday and presented to me, along with the box, on his return.

I remember vividly my father’s journey back to Holland. It was the first time the wide world came into my life. We hung a map on the kitchen wall and marked his route upon it, highlighting the cities and dates of his stopovers: Bangkok, Amsterdam, Montreal, Chicago. He was away for three months. I remember myself and my younger sisters made small calendars totalling the length of his time away – 93 days – and dutifully crossed off each day as we went to bed.

At the bottom of the money box is a clutch of small brass medallions, each embossed with the head of a prime minister of Canada. They were once mounted on a plaque that hung above my bed, a gift from a cousin of my father, a farmer in Ontario. The most recent is Pierre Trudeau and I recall as a child feeling a strong affinity with Canadian politics when I saw that name – my middle name is Trudo. For years I rejoiced when my namesake won yet another election and my plaque remained current. I couldn’t tell you who the present prime minister of Canada is.

The second object I retrieve from the box is a cheap china ornament, a trio of small and very ugly monkeys demonstrating ‘see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’ Through my childhood this object sat on my dresser, collecting dust, jostling with model aircraft. Why did I keep it?

Seeing it now reminds me that I was a rather prudish child, sentimental and highly moralistic. I blame the homespun philosophy of popular culture in rural Southland during the 60s and 70s, the dreadful country music of Radio 4ZA where we were exhorted to Stand By Your Man and Stay On The Sunny Side of Life. I cannot say I have been guiltless of seeing, hearing or talking evil. Judging by the disapproving gaze on the faces of the monkeys I suspect I have not lived up to their message.

The third and fourth objects from the box are a bottle of nail polish remover and a small packet of cotton wool. These catapult my memory a few years ahead of the money box and monkeys, into my teenage years and my first encounters with the theatre.

At some point I must have outgrown my prudishness as I developed a love of dressing up and putting on plays. And, yes, there was nail polish.

Now that I think about it the nail polish wasn’t confined to the stage. I remember - I must have been 16 or 17 - trying to impress a local beauty at the swimming baths with adolescent heroics and failing miserably when she noticed my scarlet toenails. Perhaps that was when I acquired the nail polish remover and cotton wool.

I notice the bottle is almost full. Did I use it only once? I regret to think I failed to continue my nail polish habit into adulthood.

The final object in the box is a small crucifix, stamped from cheap metal, painted gold. It is made in Taiwan. This is an icon, presented to me on my first communion (“first Holy Communion” we chanted as kids) and hung above my bed. We all received a crucifix on our first communion. No Catholic would be without one as they walked the perilous path towards puberty.

Like many of my Catholic peers I have mixed feelings about my religion and its stark symbolism. It was a rebellious spirit that packed the crucifix out of my life. As a young man I was relieved to put the faith of my childhood behind me. Now, in middle age, I am as uncertain about this conviction as I am about many other things.

An acquaintance recently revealed to me that he is ‘a recovering Catholic.’ That’s cute, and probably sums up my own ambivalence.

I put the crucifix aside and pack the other objects back into the box. Perhaps I will rediscover them in another 30 years – a truly archaeological experience.

I hang the crucifix above the workbench in the garage. In my youth this would have been considered irreverent, but there you are – and there it is.