Bill Roberts

This is my oldest continuously-in-possession artifact.

Although my cognitive memory can’t conjure its origins, my olfactory memory can conjure its smell— which is good, because, after all these years, my treasure chest has lost its cedarwood scent.

It’s lost other things, too: its shiny brass latch and lock (though you can see its outline and abandoned nail holes), and on the back (though you can’t see it), one of the no-longer-so-shiny brass hinges barely holds on.

And it’s lost a cascading catalogue of contents, including:

a 1909 S VDB Lincoln penny, commissioned by FDR to commemorate Abe’s centennial;

a 1961 Confirmation-gift Book of Common Prayer;

a 1963 autographed White Sox baseball and Season Pass, which I won as a top-ten finalist in a Chicago Daily News Batboy Contest.

When I took it down from the shelf just now, I discovered conjuring tricks: a disappearing egg, magic ropes, a coin illusion, and a Jacob’s Ladder.

As it happens, and something always happens, I lost the Prayer Book and Baseball— signed by the likes of Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio— when one of our St. Bernards chewed it to bits.

Before we moved in 1960, I was called Darrell. Then I decided to be called “Bill,” because, even at 10-years-old, I wanted a new name for a new village and a new start.

Like my old cedarwood treasure chest, I’ve lost some outward appearances, I’ve lost some inside content, and. . . I’m still conjuring tricks and new starts!