A Duck, a Watch, a Nickel, and a Rock

In literature, we call them symbols. There’s the green light at the end of the dock in Great Gatsby. Or what the three harpooners represent in Moby-Dick or the Mississippi River as a symbol of freedom in Huck Finn. Movies do it too, like a broken down house symbolizes a broken down life or rain as a form of baptism.

Generally, a symbol is just a tangible thing that stands for an abstract idea (note to English teacher friends: don’t bust me on this one–give me a long leash here). And it’s not just books and poems and movies that use them. People are inherently symbolic, which is to say that we love symbols, we need symbols. Consider when Israel crossed the Jordan River and Joshua instructed them to grab twelve stones to erect an altar in nearby Gilgal (Joshua 4). The altar became a became a tangible reminder to everyone, a symbol. Year later, if a bunch of kids came across the pile of rocks, the wise old dude or dudette would re-tell the story of crossing the Jordan.

I’m no different, and probably neither are you. I bet you have trophies, medals, photos, ticket stubs, or t-shirts. Maybe even a rock or a shell. One layer of my desk organizer is covered in my stuff, random to the outsider but meaningful to me.

Consider my yellow friend, aka Lucky Duck. He originated from MJ’s time at Bradley University, a rubber fowl that cost us gamillions in tuition but became a personal mascot for me. Lucky Duck oversaw the sale of our Illinois house in 2020, the subsequent move, and now he supervises my work in Texas. He’s also one of Ruby’s faves, along with Tiny Walrus and Pewter the Pig (not pictured).

I don’t know what it is about rocks. You’ll notice there are several on my desk caddy. One hails from a Santa Barbara beach. The painted one was a gift from a debater. One is, very loosely speaking, shaped in the form of a boot. I snagged it in 2008 when I joined my siblings to clean out my dad’s Mariposa cabin, one he bought in 1964. I spied the rock near the old tool shed and pocketed it as a rough keepsake. Vaguely resembling a boot, it seemed the appropriate reminder of the past. That was a somber weekend, cleaning up and cleaning out my dad’s favorite place in the world, a place he could no longer maintain. I had spent a few hundred days of my life at The Cabin, wandering the three acres in search of fun. Even the title of this blog, Hurl’s Treehouse, is taken from time I spent there.

My truck’s cup of coins holds this five-cent piece. I have no idea where it came from. I found it one day when rummaging for correct change. Then I saw the date. In the words of Rocky the Squirrel, “Hokey Smokes!” In 1939–my dad was 20 and my mom was 14. The US stood on the cusp of war. This nickel might have purchased a loaf of bread, a Pepsi, or an unhealthy load of penny candy. I ponder the palms this nickel has seen, the places it traveled, the incredible evolution of technology. Just a nickel, you say? No, it’s a reminder of those who preceded us.

Then there’s the wristwatch. If you see photos of my dad from as far back as the 60’s, strapped to his left wrist is a black watch, courtesy of the USAF. He wore it when he endured frigid temps in the belly of B-52’s and when he drove cross-country to visit brothers Bill and Pat in South Dakota or traveled to bombardier reunions in Santa Fe or San Antonio. He always kept it on California time, no matter what. It could be 2:30 in Wisconsin, but my dad would glance at his watch and answer, “It’s 12:30.” He’d follow with a sly smile and “Hehehe.” My siblings graciously allowed me to take it after he passed away. No need to explain this one.

The power of symbols lies in their ability to evoke memories, tangible artifacts that bring a smile or grimace or word. We can see and hold them, trace their details with our fingertips, replay the video on our memory screen. Each thing is a story in itself, a tale we can (and do) tell others, but the re-telling inevitably falls short of the actual experience we lived. Positively, we use those benchmarks and altars to ground us and make sense of our story. Sometimes we forget what we need to remember. Symbols help.

But there’s a danger lurking. Symbols are mere representations, things from our past or present, a place to visit but not to live. Symbols are a shadow, not the thing itself. A fire could consume all the things on my desk, plus all the others stored in my attic or file cabinet or wherever. I would miss the nickel and Lucky Duck and the other things, but I would not be diminished in the least. They remind me, yes, but they are not me.

Miranda Lambert sings The House that Built Me, a powerful message couched in a simple melody. If you don’t know it, give it a listen here. The tune was CMA’s single of the year in 2009 and won a Grammy too, all for good reason. Like so many folks, the speaker in the song is hurting and broken and searching. She returns to her childhood home seeking solace. Lambert sings:

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing

We never know what happened, the resolution to the speaker’s inner turmoil. I suspect she discovered what most of us know. In the end, a house may provide numerous memories and feelings. But it’s just a house. Just like a rubber duck is, well, a rubber duck.