Minesweeper

Minesweeper

The wealth is in the journey.

Looking back now, I’d have to say, it all started on June the 12th, of 2010. A child’s imagination became a young man’s dream, which grew into a life-long passion.

My Gram passed away in January. It seemed like half of Pap went with her, and the other half couldn’t wait to catch up. By late May, they were together again.

I parked beside an open U-Haul, in front of the old house. My mother and father were carrying in empty boxes. The morning was spent packing and loading the entire downstairs. When noon came, we rested on the back porch, eating sandwiches, and drinking sweet tea.

From where I sat, I could see into the small barn that served as Pap’s workshop. Dozens of tools covered the back wall. In the center, like a musket over a mantle, hung the machine I named, Minesweeper.

When I was eight years old, I had those little plastic army men. Each small green soldier carried a weapon of some sort, except one guy. He carried a machine like Pap’s.

A picture of Pap, sweeping for mines in the north pasture, hung in his den. I never thought to ask why mines were buried among the cow pies of western Pennsylvania.

One summer, my family vacationed at the beach. On the first day, I refused to cross the sand to the water. A man was searching for mines right in our path, and I didn't want to step on one. When I told Dad, he chuckled, and explained to me what a metal detector was, and how it worked. I understood. But to me, Pap's "detector" would always be Minesweeper.

After lunch, I walked to the barn, and took the old guy down. He was blue with white letters. Like all of Pap’s tools, Minesweeper was in excellent condition. I returned to the house, pretending to hunt mines along the way.

“Well”, my father laughed, “I see you found old Minesweeper. Where was he?”

“Hanging in the barn. I think he misses Pap," I said with an overly sad face. "Would it be okay if I keep him?”

“Sure. Pap would have liked that."

We joined Mom in the house, and got to work on the second floor.

My sister, Peg, and her boyfriend, Roger, showed up around 1:30. Peg helped Mom empty closets, while Dad, Roger, and I tackled the attic.

There wasn't much up there. I moved maybe a dozen boxes to the top of the ladder. Dad peeked in each one, and handed it down to Roger.

“I believe this one’s for you,” he said, sliding the last box back to me.

It was full of magazines, and several hardback books, all having to do with metal detecting. At the very bottom was an old, black, Moleskine notebook, wrapped with a thick rubber band. I folded the box shut, and followed Dad down the ladder.

At 6:00, Mom called it a day. We would meet the following Saturday to pack up the shop and basement. I slid the box of books to the passenger side, next to Minesweeper, and hit the road.

Once home, I sat on the couch and plopped the box on the floor. After putting the magazines aside, I slid my hand down past the hardbacks, grabbed the black notebook, and wrenched it out. The cover was soft and worn, but in great condition otherwise.

I rolled off the rubber band, and opened to the first page. It was blank, except for one word, right in the middle, in large uppercase letters, TREASURE.

After that, came pages after page of what appeared to be log entries. The first was March 8, 1980. I read about Pap’s first day out with Minesweeper. Taped to the page were a couple instant Polaroid’s. One showed about a dozen dirty coins. I couldn't read the dates, but a few looked old. The other photo was of a pile of nails, bottle caps, and pull-tabs from soda cans.

Five years of pap’s handwriting filled half the notebook. Pap had an accident in 1985 that injured his left leg. All my life, he walked with a cane and a limp. His minesweeping days were cut short.

As I turned the pages, the pictures were fewer, but the finds were better. Things like an 1858 Indian-head penny, a silver thimble, and a colonial musket ball made the page. They were cool, but hardly what I would call, TREASURE.

Next, I leafed through the hardcover books. One listed the 1980’s value of each item. They would surely be worth more by now, I thought.

As I packed everything back in the box, I noticed loose pages sticking out from the Moleskine. I pulled out a dozen hand-drawn maps. Each included familiar roads, creeks, and other landmarks. There were locations marked with an X, and labeled as "cellar hole". An X, on a map, in a notebook titled TREASURE. That, got my attention.

That night, my dreams were filled with discoveries. My new partner would beep, I would dig, and EUREKA! Diamond rings and Gold coins practically leaped from the holes.

I was up with the sun, eager to get started. It was early, but I knew Mom and Dad would be awake. I grabbed Minesweeper, and headed for my childhood home.

After mooching fresh batteries from Mom’s kitchen drawer, I walked to the middle of the yard. On the advice of a couple YouTube videos, I began to swing the disc “low and slow.” Within a few steps, Minesweeper let out a loud beep. I dropped to my knees, brushed some leaves aside, and stared at the spot. "Eureka," I whispered, then out loud, “I need a shovel.”

I found one, leaning by a bucket on the back porch. I grabbed them both, and went to digging. The excitement was building. This could be anything, a silver coin, a gold earring, or… a Yoo-hoo bottle cap. Oh well, on to the next beep.

By noon, I‘d uncovered four Hot Wheels cars, a Chuck-E-Cheese token, and $1.37 in change, but no silver. The bucket was full of junk, including a broken walky-talky antenna, and a Swanson Potpie plate. That didn’t discourage me. Each beep was as exciting as the first. I was hooked.

We met the following Saturday to squeeze the last of Pap’s stuff into the U-Haul. After taking one last look at the old place, I hopped in my truck, and drove out the lane, but I didn’t go home. With Minesweeper by my side, and Pap’s drawings in my pocket, I was off to find that first X.

When 7:30 rolled around, my back was aching, my stomach was growling, and my bucket was full of junk. I had searched three locations from the maps, but didn’t find a single cellar hole.

Minesweeper did find a few weird nails. They weren’t round, like normal nails. These were square. I took a picture with my phone, and stuffed them in my pocket.

That evening, while watching more YouTube videos, I discovered a group in New Hampshire, known as the Stealth Diggers. Among other things, I learned that a cellar hole isn’t made of cinder blocks, and a cement floor.

The next weekend, I returned to Pap’s hunting grounds. After binge watching the New Hampshire gang all week, I felt like an old pro. This time the cellar holes stood out like a teenage boy, in the girl’s locker room.

All that summer, and late into the fall, I spent every Saturday in Somerset County. I followed Pap’s maps, searching for the next X, and the TREASURE that awaited me there.

The cellar holes hid colonial versions of familiar things. Minesweeper found Buckles, buttons, bells, spoons, and yes, coins. The coins were in rough shape, and not worth much. Still, I got a real kick out of being the first person to touch them in 200 years or more. I clutched each new find, closed my eyes, and imagined the day it was lost.

Some things required further investigation. I had as much fun researching these items as I did digging them. For instance, I found a small round tin with "Merry Widows", pressed into the top. You’ll have to Google that one for yourself.

Having no logbook of my own, I took poor quality videos of everything with my new “smart phone”. These I shared with the family.

That Christmas, Peg gifted me a new video camera. It came with one condition. I had to let her create a YouTube channel, to share what she called, my adventures.

“I don’t think so”, I resisted. “That seems like work. If my ‘adventures’ become work, it’ll take the fun out of it.”

“Don’t worry”, she assured me. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll set up the channel, edit the videos, and upload them. You’ll need a PayPal account. I’ll take care of that too.”

“Well okay,” I relented, “but if it becomes a pain in the butt-”

“It won’t. I’ll make sure. I’ll even have the emails forwarded to me, and sort through them for you. Just keep doing what you do. Except… try to talk more. Pretend someone is there with you. Teach them about metal detecting and the stuff you find.”

As time passed, I got married, had children, and bought a house. But every Saturday, if the weather was tolerable, Minesweeper and I were out digging, and making videos.

True to her word, Peg took care of everything. To be honest, it got to where I enjoyed making videos. This might sound weird, but it really felt like people were right there with me. Together, we found incredible relics in amazing places.

The woods and fields of Maryland, and Virginia, gave us countless items from the civil war. My favorites are a Confederate artillery shell, and a complete Yankee sword.

In western Pennsylvania, colonial cellar holes revealed everything from Spanish silver coins, to complete shoe buckles.

We searched parks and campgrounds, scoured beaches and trails.

Metal wasn't our only target. Newly plowed fields turned up Native American artifacts. And old farm dumps hid 19th century bottles, jars, and pottery.

We even explored rivers, and old stone wells, using magnets and cameras, tied to ropes.

In 2016, I finally bought a new detector. Never the less, Minesweeper was in the truck for each adventure. He participated on occasion, for old time sake.

A decade has passed since we packed up the old farm. Minesweeper now hangs like a musket over the mantle in my den, and Peg has another Christmas gift for me.

“Your fans have been very supportive”, she says, turning the computer monitor toward me.

I never did find what most folks would call TREASURE. However, I’ve connected with thousands of people, through my videos. They come from all over to dig with me. I get invitations from far-and-wide to go dig with them. Peg calls these people my fans. To me, they’re my friends. We help each other, and learn from each other.

My favorite finds are the personal things, like jewelry, military dog tags, and other inscribed items. I can often return these to the one who lost them. The look on their face when I hand it to them is priceless.

After all these years, and thousands of beeps, the anticipation of each is still intoxicating.

Those amazing friends, those priceless looks, and the excitement of the hunt, are all the treasures I need.

The $20,000 in my PayPal account is just icing on the cake.

**NOTE**

I am a long-time detectorist. However, most of this story is fictional. The true part is this. For most of us, it's not about gold coins and diamond rings.

Don’t get me wrong. If I ever find even one gold coin… I’ll do the dance. :-)