When my grandfather (Lloyd's father, John) died, we spent several days cleaning out his garage. Among the items was a locked safe. The combination numbers were unknown, but, intriguingly, shaking the microwave-sized safe prompted a rattle of what sounded like coins. Rare coins, perhaps? Gold dubloons?
The safe sat for years in Lloyd's garage, until one sunny summer day, he and I decide to see if we could open it to see if his pop had left us a secret treasure. Dad and I started out with a technique we'd seen in movies, turning the dial and listening for the telltale "click" to cue us to the combination numbers.
No luck. We couldn't hear a thing.
Drilling directly into the combination lock, another movie tactic, proved just as fruitless.
So we moved quickly to brute force. Out came the sledgehammer, the crowbar and other tools from my dad's magnificent Cle Elum garage. The 1940s-era safe took a beating, but refused to open. Each hit rattled the coins even more, which reinforced my determination. This safe was protecting something valuable!
Nothing worked.
We broke for lunch, drank root beer and ate turkey sandwiches on Cle Elum Bakery bread, probably prepared by mom. "Have we looked at the bottom?" Dad wondered aloud.
Amazingly, we hadn't. We returned to the safe, now on the sidewalk outside his garage, flipped it over and laughed at the sight: No metal, just exposed plaster!
Dad found a pick and soon plaster was all over the sidewalk and the safe was breached!
Inside, was ... a metal container with a few dozen small-value coins.
Dad chuckled at how vexed I was. All that work, and half a day, for $1.32 in coins!
A year never went by without Dad bringing up our doomed efforts, laughing each time.
A few years ago, I received a photo of the battered safe in the mail with a note, from Dad. It read, "Evidence of our first caper!"
This week, as I've remembered Lloyd, I've realized that money meant little to him. A day spent with his family, or friends? Immeasurably more valuable than rare coins or gold dubloons.
It took me too long to realize what I'm sure Dad understood immediately those many years ago during our safecracking. His father had left us a treasure after all.
-- Mike "Bucky" Olson, son
2 comments:
I remember that so well, great one, Mike
Hi Bucky, I just read your story. I started to smile when I began the paragraph about the drill. I continued to smile as I continued reading. Your Dad was a man that made the simplist event become a memory and a learning experience for a life time. I will forever love my Uncle Oly.
Love Lisa
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