I’ve always been intrigued by time capsules. Not to be confused with time-released capsules. Apparently, I was quite interested in the latter when I was about two years old. Mom walked into the living room to find me emptying the last medicinal capsule from a previously full bottle; I was enthralled watching the pretty colored beads fall into the carpet. Such an imaginative child.
But now, I’m more interested in time capsules in which people burying letters, gadgets, and keepsakes for future generations to dig up one day. Like a buried historical treasure, the contents could show how far our present generation will have progressed, and what the values were of our ancestors. I thought it would be easy to choose my contribution to the future. Instead, after six days, I was still stumped. Everyone living on the Texas Gulf Coast has mentally reviewed the what-I-will-take-when-I-evacuate-for-a-hurricane list. That’s an easier list, with no pressure of positively influencing people of the future.
Apparently, what we choose to leave behind depends on several factors. When I conducted my first Text Poll, friends responded with a multitude of questions. “How big is the capsule? How long will it be in the ground? Is it a personal capsule, or part of a communal thing? Should it represent the self, the ideals of the self, or shared ideals? Should it reflect the view of society at the time? Should it be a message of hope for the future? Should it tell a story of the past? Am I limited to only one item?”
Clearly, my friends are deeper thinkers than I. My biggest question was “Where are we going to bury this thing?” I pictured our using a large bottle – with a twist top, like a soft drink bottle – made of a heat-resistant, moisture-resistant material.
To clarify the assignment, I replied, “The size of the capsule is to be determined, it is part of a community activity, and will be in the ground 50 years. It should represent what you want it to represent – hope, despair, dreams, social consciousness, historical relevance – whatever you want it to be.”
However, while waiting for poll results to roll in, I decided this capsule will be the size of a NASA Space Shuttle. With a “bottle” that big, I can include Mom’s dresser from the 1950s; she painted it red and antiqued it. Built to last, it will be intact when Jesus takes it to my Big Bedroom in the Sky, for all of eternity.
Soon, my phone began to “ding” repeatedly; my friends are also more decisive than I.
Kat replied, “Either it (her item) will shock people and encourage change, or it will make them proud of improving the planet. For technology interest, I would put the newest iPhone in it; by then we will probably have chips in our hands or something. Also, stats on the earth at the time, like rate of pollution, animal stats, etc., to see if we have gotten worse or better.”
“This probably doesn’t make sense” my friend Zandra replied, “but the first thing that popped into my head was ‘love.’ Not sure how you put that in a time capsule. Otherwise, really great books, copies of your stories, yummy recipes, precious pictures, and an heirloom or two.”
I was honored that she included copies of my stories on her list, and I didn’t have to pay her more than $100 to write that.
She added, “Photos of family, and people, and places. A painting that makes me think of my husband every time I see it – a Colorado pastoral scene with bright snow and a shadowed edge in the foreground. Brilliant, quiet, and it shows the passage of time together. Assuming a Bible will already be included, anything by Mark Twain will work for me.”
Indeed. The Bible, and Mark Twain, will never be outgrown by mankind.
When I’d texted my one-question survey, “What would you put in a time capsule?” to my friend Flower, I knew to expect the unexpected. She’s the epitome of “still waters run deep” - when she speaks, you need to listen. She’s the only person I know who can go to a children’s animated movie, and later give a dissertation on the propaganda being promoted by the film, the social statements being made, and what the characters represent. She’s brilliant and funny. Meanwhile, I’d be laughing throughout the movie, and enjoying my third tub of popcorn, oblivious to the truths displayed.
Flower’s responses did not disappoint. “I would put all the different styles of phones we have experienced in our lifetime. A pocket knife, a bullet, and a can opener. Toys and figurines of animals. And family photos.”
As I stared at her answers, wondering about the bullet and the animal figurines, she added, “Keep in mind my time capsule is being opened by aliens, or advanced earthlings, who have never seen these things.”
Of course. Aliens. I should have known. Still, I needed a little more clarification. The next day, I asked, “Did you mean any kind of toys?”
“No,” she replied. “Toys of animals. Because man is gonna kill all of them.”
Wow. Chills ran down my spine.
Finally, I mentally started my own list. Cowboy’s medical records, to show proof of what autism looks like on the inside of a body and what treatments can help. All of Mom’s writings. A finger painting by Cowboy, done when he was about five years old; Mom framed it, and it hangs in my guest room. The certificate, signed by Governor John Connally, making me an Honorary Texan. My brother, Doc, was distraught that I was born outside of the Lone Star State, so he explained the dilemma to the Texas governor via a letter. Home movies of Dad crossing the equator, aboard a Navy destroyer headed to Antarctica, during their mapping the ocean floor during the Cold War. The front page of the Houston Chronicle published the day after the Astros won the World Series; I couldn’t wait to take a copy to Mom. Three months before she passed away, she finally got to see her team go all the way. An old hand-cranked pencil sharpener from the 50s, that sat on Mom’s wooden desk for decades. Some of Cowboy’s thousands of squishy toys. My Normal Rockwell print of The Winner, given to me by Doc one Christmas. My journal from my three-week stay in Amsterdam in 1988, when I was doing street ministry. A copy of The Search for Significance, by Robert McGee, the second most influential book of my life. My stringbooks from high school and college; feature stories and editorials were my favorites. Look Magazine’s issue highlighting man’s first walk on the moon. All my Hitchcock movies; all Neil Simon movies; all seasons of Friends, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and The Carol Burnett Show; and a DVD player. The future will need murder mysteries and laughter. And, of course, Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style – because grammar matters.
As I tried to think of more to add, my friend Red responded. But she opted to go with using a time machine rather than a time capsule. “I think I would put myself in it, so I can go back and live in the 70s and 80s, with no cell phones, computers, etc.! And I’d go back out to Bentley’s! No responsibilities!”
Ahh. Bentley’s. It was our favorite nightclub in Houston. During the day, we went to college; at night, we were Dancing Queens. I’m ready to climb in that time machine with her.
Now, dear reader, it’s one thing to be surprised by responses of friends. But to be surprised by your spouse after a quarter of a century together – that’s a gift. My heart melted when I read Flash’s reply. “Ten pictures from each year together, starting with the day we got married (photos on a USB Drive). A newspaper from the day the capsule is buried. My old Bible. A key going nowhere, to keep them guessing; everyone loves a mystery. Four of my favorite movies. And a vial of my blood; I don’t know why – maybe for my DNA in case they want to clone me.” Flash is not lacking in confidence when it comes to duplicating himself for the sake of humanity’s future.
Pictures together. A Bible. A mystery. Movies. He was listing some of my favorite things, until he got to the blood. I faint at the sight of my own blood in a test tube, and have to turn my head away every time Cowboy has blood drawn. I’m the picture of strength.
Next, I heard from Evangeline. She wrote, “I would put an iPhone in, to remind the world of the socially poorest generation (present); a classic novel, to remind the world that it hasn’t changed that much (past); a love letter or poem, because love stays the same; and a scripture from the Book of Revelation to remind what is to come.” Such wisdom from my 20-year-old friend.
I longed for my items to speak wisdom. They were sentimental, but not what I most wanted to pass on to future generations. I needed to be more influential. More significant. I needed to communicate powerful messages to women of tomorrow. I wanted those Openers of the Capsule to scream, “Wow. I wish I’d been alive back then.”
Thus, my truest list evolved. A Partridge Family CD, because David Cassidy will never be dead to me. My diary from the 70s – because drama is timeless. A hula-hoop, although I know they will never be obsolete. My Tiddies. (While your mouth gapes open, Google it - they are shoes.) A Mad Magazine. My old 45 rpm vinyl record of Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.” A Barry Manilow album. A turntable, of course, so those records can be played. Gary Larson’s The Far Side books. My high school yearbook from 1981, my senior year. My full-length leather coat from the 90s. My leg warmers from the 80s. My bras, because I hate them, they all should’ve been burned long ago, and I want to bury them deep into the earth’s core.
My friend Magellan and I think similarly. Her reply came next. “A Malibu Barbie, or a poster of David Cassidy.”
Of course. How could I have forgotten the David Cassidy poster that hung over my bed until Flash made me remove it? Of course, he still left up his swimsuit-clad Farah Fawcett poster. The old double standard lives.
Finally, my last interviewee chimed in. I knew someone in the group would do conduct a science experiment in the capsule; it came from my friend Jersey. “A bag with liver and aspartame in it. To see what the liver looks like over time.” I was thoroughly grossed out, yet strangely curious. Burying aspartame-coated liver sounded like a good idea – the only place liver belongs is in the ground, anyway. Those aliens that Flower is waiting on might think it was some kind of delicacy. Nah, I’m sure aliens don’t eat liver either.
But the question remains: Where to bury this monstrosity of memories? My backyard is too small. All backyards are too small. Perhaps in a park somewhere, but not a dog park. Those puppies would be into that liver in two shakes of their own tails.
Or, better yet, let’s just put it in plain sight. Instead of a bottle, we could build a monument that looks like a soup can, fill it with all our stuff, erect it in Houston, and call it art. People will come from all over the world to take pictures of themselves with it. We’ll call it something catchy, like Time for Soup. On its lid, we’ll stamp an expiration date of 2050. In 50 years, if mankind can find a can opener similar to the one Flower put inside the can, they’ll open it up and be enlightened. Or disgusted.
Either way, we’ll be remembered. Because everything in that can will reflect something important to us. The Openers will see causes we supported, things that brought us joy, and what we want future generations to avoid – because, in one way or another, we care about our legacies. And, as my friend Zandra first pondered, we can put love in a time capsule.