All Those Times Grandma Would Take Me To The Lake
When I was little, Grandma often drove me to a quiet lake just outside town. In her old blue pickup, with pine-scented air drifting in, she’d hand me a trowel and say, “Go on now. See what you can find.” I dug barefoot in the soil, unearthing rocks I thought were treasures. Lined up on her windowsill, they became my proud collection.
Life moved on—college, work, relationships. The lake faded into memory. At my cousin’s wedding years later, he admitted he’d been jealous of those trips. That night, I realized how special they were.
After Grandma passed, I returned to her house. Everything was frozen in time—and my rocks still sat on the sill. I gathered them, drove to the lake, and began digging. Instead of rocks, I unearthed a rusted tin box containing photos, a bracelet, and a letter from Grandma. She confessed she had planted many of those stones, wanting me to believe in hidden treasures. Her words urged me to keep searching—not just in soil, but in life.
Her letter changed me. I left corporate marketing, moved back home, and turned her house into “Treasure Lake,” a weekend camp for kids. I hid polished stones along the trails, just as she once did for me. Slowly, children came. Shy ones like Kevin began to open up, their eyes lighting with wonder. Neighbors helped build cabins, donate supplies, and keep the place alive.
One day, a neighbor delivered another letter from Grandma, along with a key. In the attic, I found a trunk with $9,000 and keepsakes, her final gift to keep the dream alive. With it, we built a better cabin, added a telescope, and gave kids space to believe.
Now, when asked how Treasure Lake began, I smile. “My grandma used to take me to a lake and let me dig for rocks.”
The truth is, she planted more than stones. She planted belief, love, and the courage to keep digging—for magic, for meaning, for ourselves.
Moral: Small gestures can become a child’s foundation. A rock, a quiet afternoon, a letter of love—these are the real treasures.
