One early August Saturday, while most eleven-year-olds slept, Papa Bob invited me on an adventure. We would hunt treasure, he assured. Old enough to doubt yet young enough to hope, I strapped on my roller blades and hopped into his old Lincoln. The Old Spice and Old Valvoline, I can still smell.
Moving glacially, we finally arrived at the first stop. He needed no treasure map, for he had conquered this island before. “There,” he shouted, as he pointed toward the barely visible chest. We approached jovially, ready to claim the loot. He reached in and pulled out the first piece of silver.
I, bewildered, wondered why we, of all travelers, were the ones to find the prize. I too moved in and, with a glance, observed Pharaoh’s riches. I pulled out my first piece, on which were inscribed words devoted to an ancient deity, no doubt: Mtn. Dew.
As high-fructose coated our hands, the yellow-and-black-suited defenders of the treasure swarmed. Throwing as much of the booty into our bag as we could, we ran back to the safety of the Lincoln.
I earned three seventy-five that day. In the twenty-five years since, though, the value of that three seventy-five has become priceless.