For nearly thirty years they sat untouched in the attic of my parents' house in California: a collection of sealed cardboard boxes held together with masking tape. Hidden inside were the materials a 12-year old boy had decided to send forward through time.
This was the second of my time capsules, sealed on July 12, 1980. I remember nothing about the contents other than that in the months after I sealed my first capsule (on March 5, 1980, to be opened on March 5, 2000), I had given more thought to what a person from the distant future might find interesting. And I had decided to be more ambitious and patient than I had been with the first capsule: instead of a 20-year wait, I left instructions (taped to the cover of one of the boxes) that this capsule should be opened 30 years hence, on July 12, 2010. I know I hoped that I would be the one to open the capsule, but it was a real challenge to imagine that I might one day be so old, or that the capsule would not be lost at some point on its temporal journey.
A few weeks ago I asked my parents to send me the capsule. My mother put the whole thing in one big box, and took it to a FedEx office today. 26 pounds of my distant past are on their way to Baltimore, in plenty of time for the July unveiling.
So what do I hope to find? I can think of some things that I might have gotten my hands on as a 12-year old that would have appreciated significantly in value over 30 years. But (unrealistic as it is to expect) I think I'd like nothing more than to find 26 pounds of handwritten pages--messages from family and friends, and my own impressions of my life and speculation about the years ahead.
This was the second of my time capsules, sealed on July 12, 1980. I remember nothing about the contents other than that in the months after I sealed my first capsule (on March 5, 1980, to be opened on March 5, 2000), I had given more thought to what a person from the distant future might find interesting. And I had decided to be more ambitious and patient than I had been with the first capsule: instead of a 20-year wait, I left instructions (taped to the cover of one of the boxes) that this capsule should be opened 30 years hence, on July 12, 2010. I know I hoped that I would be the one to open the capsule, but it was a real challenge to imagine that I might one day be so old, or that the capsule would not be lost at some point on its temporal journey.
A few weeks ago I asked my parents to send me the capsule. My mother put the whole thing in one big box, and took it to a FedEx office today. 26 pounds of my distant past are on their way to Baltimore, in plenty of time for the July unveiling.
So what do I hope to find? I can think of some things that I might have gotten my hands on as a 12-year old that would have appreciated significantly in value over 30 years. But (unrealistic as it is to expect) I think I'd like nothing more than to find 26 pounds of handwritten pages--messages from family and friends, and my own impressions of my life and speculation about the years ahead.
