Rocks in the treasury

I walked into a store the other day.

I guess it was a flea market.

I'm ruining this, aren't I?

Well, there was a section for "treasures." And behind a few "you break it you buy it" notes, the shelves were crowded with trinkets, some shiny, some dull. Some half and half, depending where the dust had settled.

There were many shelves full of books, and one decrepit, thick black spine caught my attention. The tired book was completely ordinary. Once a textbook, once pristine, with white pages tightly bound, it probably arrived in the mail wrapped brown paper and tied with string.

It was probably discarded as soon as the graduate received their certificate.

Now it's on a shelf with other books, some standing a little straighter than others. Across the aisle are the lazy typewriters with dented cases, the threadbare chairs, frayed ticket stubs with washed out ink and thousands of teacups. All in a section called "treasures."

What keeps these faded memories from ending up in the junkyard? Maybe chance. Maybe more.

When I was young, my family had a Black Lab. We called him Tar. He called us obvious.

He loved swimming and chasing sticks, but toward the end of his life he slowed down a bit. He couldn't swim as far, but he still loved the water. We used to take him down to the beach near Thornbury Harbour. It's very rocky there, we often wished for sand, but Tar thought it was perfect.

While we sat on the beach, skipping rocks off the shore or wishing for sand to make castles, Tar would stand knee deep in the water staring into the waves. His ears fell forwards to cover the side of his face.

Labs have adorable ears.

His brown eyes watched the bottom of the lake, his head moving slightly as he searched the rocks. Then one would catch the sun, and sparkle like he wanted it to. He would shove his ink black head under the water and stay there until he had that grey rock in his jaw.

Then he would bring it to a spot on the beach, near enough so we knew it was a gift, but far enough away to keep it safe. After it was placed neatly on the pile - and they were neat piles - he trotted back to the water to wait patiently for a new gem.

The rocks chipped his teeth, the water got in his ears and made them ache, and the piles always tumbled when we left for home, but on our return, Tar made more treasure piles for us, his family.

I've heard it said that one's heart is always found in the same place as one's treasure, and that makes me think that something precious is that way because our heart decides it.

Teacups, typewriters, ticket stubs and Tar. Perhaps value is found where value is placed.