"We do not follow maps to buried treasure and X never, ever marks the spot." —Indiana Jones
Ginny Neil
In the middle of winter, when I dread the drive over the three snow-covered mountains between me and the grocery store, I am always grateful for the root cellar dug into the hill beside my house. Today is such a day. I open the door to the 10-by-10 building. We built the cellar 20 years ago and it is nothing fancy. With a gravel floor and cinderblock walls, its dark interior smells like damp earth and apples.
Ginny Neil
I think about the other women who must have stood in similar doorways, being grateful for the abundance. My house was built in 1890, but tombstones out in the hay field tell of settlers living and dying here much earlier. Wherever the original cellar on this plot of land once stood is now a well-kept secret. There are some square indentations in the hill, but I know at least one of them is where the springhouse was built. It was long gone by the time we moved here.
When I dig in my garden I often find beautiful shards of blue-printed plates and thick chunks of gray or orange pottery. Perhaps the cellar was near there. I like to think these broken remains were once treasures to some farmwife. I imagine her shrieking, “My pickling crock!” when she tripped and dropped it. Or, crying when a child shattered one of her best plates, a last reminder of her former life in a distant city. Research reveals that I am not the only gardener finding pottery shards in her plot, and maybe they don’t mark where the root cellar was, at all.
Ginny Neil
Because early farm families did not have community trash service or landfills, they buried their refuse all over their land. Pottery and china would have added minerals to garden soil. It makes sense that perhaps they were put there on purpose. Whatever the reason, the vegetables in my cellar sucked some of those minerals into their cells as they grew and ripened. When I eat my green beans, corn and tomatoes, I am swallowing shadows of a time now long past.
We have also turned up other items all over our farm. I found a treasure trove of discarded medicine bottles in the middle of our front 40 one day when we were excavating for a new fence. I have dug old toys out of the creek bank and the cast iron top to a parlor stove revealed itself next to our driveway after a heavy rain.
Last spring, I unearthed a small, red, rubber car with yellow wheels in my flower bed. Research led to the discovery that it would have been made in the ‘50s. My grandchildren are doing their best to leave their own clues for the next generation. They drop toys and balls all over the farm. The ones I have found are often half buried by advancing sod. It won’t take long for them to disappear altogether. Who will find them and wonder how they got there?
As I turn to leave the cellar, a pretty jar lid slides out of my bowl and clatters to the floor. I decide to kick it under one of the shelves and bury it for the next generation. Someday, a woman will find it and puzzle over this clue hidden by another woman who once stood in this doorway thinking deep thoughts about the stories other women left behind.
The story above first appeared in our January / February 2024 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!