It does not seem that long ago when most homes included a piece of furniture called a cedar or hope chest. Initially constructed in the 15th century, they were Dowry boxes—places to save and store items to be used in the first daughter’s home after she married.
Many of ours in the south were used for storing blankets, sweaters, photo albums, and hidden secrets if you used the lock. Every one of my relatives and I owned this vital piece of furniture, including my grandmother, aka, Grandpa.
Grandpa’s cedar chest was made of a golden mahogany veneer that matched her bed and dresser. Her bedrooms throughout her life were small, but she somehow expertly carved a space for her treasured piece. I would see her use the key to unlock the chest, throw something inside, and quickly lock it back. When I was young, I wasn’t that curious about the contents because I usually tried to rush her to go fishing or play Rook.
Once I was grown, my mother and I went for our usual visit. Grandpa was in her late eighties by then, lived in a small duplex in Tennessee, and she was still full of fun and feistiness. We didn’t fish much at that point, but we sure had some great Scrabble matches and funny discussions.
One afternoon Grandpa and Mama were in the bedroom talking, and I joined. Grandpa’s old pocketbook was on the bed, looking worn and abused. When my mom saw it, she said, “Let’s go shopping, Mama, and I will buy you a new purse!”
When I heard the word “shopping,” I quickly put on my shoes, but Grandpa said, “Well, shoot, Elizabeth, I think I have one in the chest!”
She retrieved the brass key from the drawer of her little dresser to unlock the chest. When she lifted the top, the mild scent of cedar wafted through the room. She rummaged through to the bottom and pulled out an elegant navy-blue leather purse lifting it high above her head. “See, I knew I had me a new pocketbook in here!” she happily declared.
Mom and I could not close our mouths for a moment as she held the beautiful purse with the original tags still attached. “Mama, where did you get that?”
“Oh, I am not sure, Elizabeth, but I think it was a Christmas present years ago from your brother. I was holding on to it like I do all these things in this chest.”
Once she said that we both started to look in the secret space where Grandpa had collected a stash of finery fit for a queen. Gifts of robes, gowns, sweaters, perfumes, wallets, and shawls.
“Mama, why in the world have you not used these things?” Mom exclaimed.
My mouth was still open as I gazed at the contents of her secret world.
“Well, shoot, I was saving ‘um!”
My mother replied, “Mama, how long are you planning on living? You know the purse will last years, and these are items you need and can use.”
Then my almost 90-year-old Grandpa stated, “Well, I reckon you are right about that. I forgot that part!”
With that statement, my mouth finally started producing a laugh so loud that everyone joined in as Mama fell back on the bed in a howl.
We began to empty and organize the cedar chest contents with the hope that Grandpa would be able to have enough years to use all those gifts she had been saving for that ambiguous rainy day.
Why do we assume we are going to live forever? Why do we forget “that part” of living? I see people like Grandpa who put away the beautiful things they were given to use in an uncertain future. How many of us store our dreams in a hope chest in our minds?
We should take the plastic off the sofas and use our finest dishes on the table where crystal pieces hold the wine and the candles. Let’s open our secret stashes of hopes and dreams and find a way to use them today. Who knows what we might discover when we unlock the hidden place where they reside?
When I leave this earth, I hope I have used up all my dreams, broken a few pieces of my fine china, and my last purse is worn and abused.
Grandpa lived another ten years after we opened her secret box. In the end, the mahogany hope chest held nothing.
