05/24/2026
It didn’t keep the water away, but Greenfield’s time capsule had a silver lining.
Today was the day when the burial-vault “capsule,” buried in 1976, was set to be opened. A crowd of about 100 folks gathered with curiosity to see what was left behind by those who came before.
We waited with anticipation as the lid was lifted — revealing that the vault was nearly full of water.
Over the next hour or so, pieces of newspapers, baby shoes and spoon, photographs with indiscernible faces, glasses, record albums and indeterminable items were pulled from the water, like a shipwreck in reverse. One of the items was a cassette tape with a label in my grandfather’s familiar-yet-faded handwriting: On it, he wrote my dad and aunt’s names. I wish I knew what he’d said.
The items were placed on tables in the sun, “seeing” Greenfield for the first time in 50 years. Despite the artifacts’ waterlogged condition, people crowded around the tables, snapping photos and peering at items one wished could be seen just a bit more clearly.
Despite that disappointment, I don’t think the day — or even the time capsule itself — was a failure.
It brought people together for a shared moment.
Even though we couldn’t see the full scope of all that was saved, the items still sent a message about what was important to people back then: The everyday moments.
To me, that sounds like us today.
So whether we know exactly what was in there or not, we know we share a bond with others who have indeed gone before. We aren’t all that different from them, or whatever era of people we compare our lives against.
We want to hold tight to the people who are important to us. We want to believe our world — our lives — made a difference. And whether a time capsule is effectively sealed or exists at all, we can still choose to remember what really matters.
