Member-only story
We Gambled Our Inheritance
Scratching lottery cards at the campground
When Dad passed away, my brother and I procrastinated, but eventually, time demanded we rummage through the contents of the storage shed. Undaunted by cobwebs and mouse dropping, we tackled each box as an exploration until the label “junk drawer” appeared in the black, back corner.
The junk drawer housed all the items our family couldn’t live without but nothing useful until they didn’t exist.
In my youth, that drawer produced constant consternation because the task of searching through the clutter consumed more valuable time than any item’s actual worth. The drawer held the handheld pencil sharpener, the one binder clip we owned, and a tiny screwdriver to adjust our sunglasses on days when we finally got around to it. In fact, buried under our treasure hid a-round-to-it, a quarter-sized wooden coin displaying those exact words — something every household needed in the ’70s with the absence of Alexa.
Our treasure chest, the junk drawer, started as the place to store batteries and extra shoelaces. One shoestring held lost then found buttons waiting to be needed. The one time I did need a button, it rested in the middle of the string causing me to remove many tiny baubles to gain access to the one I needed.
