I think we all dream of finding buried treasures, especially young boys discovering the woods for the first time. Probably my first experience in treasure hunting was through coin collecting, searching, with permission, through vending machines and church collection plates. At the time, I was looking for a 1909 S VDB Lincoln cent (See Post #183), the first and rarest of the “wheat penny” series. To be honest, I still haven’t found one, but could easily resolve that with a few hundred dollars. I felt the same thrill opening packs of baseball cards, with the smell of stale, bubblegum squares, looking for specific players on the master checklist. In both cases, it was not a matter of finding great wealth, but rather the thrill of discovery.

Certainly books like the Hardy Boys mysteries, and movies such as Treasure Island, featured stories of pirates and buried treasure that captured my imagination. Pirates to this day, with the exception of Pittsburg, still fill me with that childhood thrill of finding something rare and valuable. Pirates and gangsters are everything that I am not, but have always wished that I could somehow be. I’m not adventurous, dishonest, lawless, a gun lover, or greedy by any stretch of the imagination. I could not have lived on a pirate ship, gone long periods without a shower or brushing my teeth, nor would have been able to participate in looting, debauchery, and slavery. There were times that I could drink like a sailor and even talk like one, but my sense of navigation is useless, and it would involve being outdoors. I could, however, dress like a gangster, but would have been powerless without a weapon.

The closest thing to treasure hunting that I experience in retirement is going to the mailbox each day. After all, you never know what you’re going to find in there? I have a skeleton key that opens my treasure chest of mail, including an overabundance of travel brochures and catalogs.  In a way, I suppose that wanting to explore the world is a pirate-like trait, but a cruise ship is much different than a pirate’s galleon, and has no gang plank. Also, peg legs, eye patches, bandanas, and hooks are not part of my wardrobe. I do however, have gangsta-wear in my closet such as striped suits, French cuff shirts, suspenders, pocket scarves, and cuff-links, should that opportunity arise. I could easily add an empty violin case or a squirt gun if necessary.  I also enjoy a good old-fashioned martini, if served in proper martini glassware rather than the often substituted coup. Gangsters were the pirates of the 20th century; Captain Kidd and Al Capone had much in common.

In many ways, my former sales job was like a treasure hunt. I would look for clues that would direct me to clients that might need my advertising services. I would be patient and persistent, hoping to win their trust and earn their business. I didn’t take anyone by force or threaten them with weapons, but instead suggested ideas to help them grow their business, so that all of us could make more money. Many times the treasure map, or call list, led me to nothing, but sometimes their was a pot of gold at the end, filled with partnerships, prosperity, and even friendship. In retirement, I now stay home on occasion and watch a series on the History Channel called Curse of Oak Island to get my treasure hunting fix. Two retired brothers, not ready for the easy chair, continue their lifelong quest to find a buried treasure that no one else has been able to find in over 200 years. They were getting closer, but I hit “pause” on the remote to go to the mailbox to see if there were any packages or checks that I was not expecting.