Author Brian Andreas writes, “I buried a nickel under the porch when I was eight but one day my grandma died and they sold the house and I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something.”
A nickel? What about first love necklaces and rings? Signatures scratched into house sized rocks in a dark dense forest or behind a bright red with a silver top fire extinguisher near a newly designed elevator? I did that. Took a black Sharpie and penned out Mayor Pat is the new man in control then dated it. Had no clue he’d stay in office for six terms.
Also took the number of hours the average person worked in the Twin Towers only on September 11, 2001 and on the first year anniversary took those minutes and quickly without hesitation hand painted what I could a 64x48 of the Statue of Liberty on a basement wall of a radio and television station then stood by as carpenters constructed a secondary front over it for a future generation to discover.
We all hide things…secrets, personal journeys, reasons to believe and a purpose to disagree. Trees like to hide their roots until nature stops by with a thunder cloud of many and within a few decades all that seemed hush hush is unleashed for squirrels to turn into monkey bars and gymnastic play things.
Modern day automobiles are built with such strategic limits on how much engine is seen, Uncle Kevin and other folks with nifty Sears brand tools feel like fools because this socket doesn’t fit that nut because whose hands are that tiny to loosen up the front?
Look how much the banking world hid from its customers before the recession that really was a depression crashed into soils not seen since the original Black Friday. If you believe everything you read in Rollingstone Magazine you’re easily convinced it’s still taking place but the big bad sheriff in town isn’t doing anything about it because there’s nobody big enough to take on the bully except the Chinese to whom we owe billions to.
Have you ever hid money? The choices might have been behind walls, under boxes, beneath bed sheets in the hallway closet, in a jar by a door, under a rug, the backseat of the car, a Swiss account or in your pants pocket only to learn it paid for someone else’s lunch because they found it floating in the washing machine.
I remember cutting holes in my childhood bedroom walls and floor; whatever required to speedily conceal nickels, dimes quarters and fake diamonds from gumball machines from brothers and sisters that creatively came up with brilliant excuses as to why they wanted it more than me.
As a teen the hiding game moved to mountain sides and caves once named Indian but the state went politically correct so now the road signs read: Pictorial. Returned many, many chapters later, paid off a ranger who allowed me to cross a fence, climb the face of some extremely tall sand stone and walk to the cliffs edge to lay my hands on the tree once young and filled with a Montana breeze only to learn someone had dug up before me. Therefore it wasn't meant to be.
We all hide things!
The rich hide cars, boats, fourth and fifth homes, stocks, bonds and reasons to believe in common people. The poor hide their dreams.
Author Brian Andreas writes, “I buried a nickel under the porch when I was eight but one day my grandma died and they sold the house and I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something.”
The next time I see a coin, feather, bracelet, pen or anything that looks as if it’s attached to a memory all beaten up and bruised…I’m going to let it stay for another day knowing its true owner might be on their way back to collect what a simple thought and desire set free during a moment when the human heart set aside its biggest fears and for one single unannounced second they trusted faith.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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