An ancient proverb once declared that you never know how much stuff you really have until you need to pack up and move. After picking apart every nook in my childhood bedroom for three straight weeks, I can attest; in a metaphorical game of Ouija, ghosts of my past came forward and it was no pretty sight. With hoarded collections of every sort (rocks, scented hand sanitizers, memorabilia from the 2011 Royal Wedding), I couldn’t help but to painstakingly inspect each item, tracing its origin and relevancy during my previous life. I must admit that my materialistic tendencies got the best of me at times, and some undesirables were kept for no real reason at all. I sure won’t be able to take every vacation trinket or photo booth strip to college, so I had come up with a new plan. Lo and behold, my Wilton time capsule was born.

We’ll start off with the heaviest artifacts on the bottom. My Walter Schalk jazz shoes have been so haphazardly shoved onto my feet for each Monday night class that their laces are now gnarled and permanently knotted. Mom used to delight in my jazz recitals, where she’d lovingly coat my pursed lips in bright red and peruse floral shops for bouquets of pink roses and baby’s breath. I can’t muster up any sort of impressive jive nowadays, but I do know how to make a fool of myself in front of a large crowd! Throw in my eighth grade yearbook for good measure, lest we forget the time when pretentious 14-year-old Eve decided to quote Freud. Not sure my field hockey stick or volleyball can make the cut; after all, I sure didn’t during tryouts!

I’d ball up every Belden Hill shirt that somehow still lurk in my T-shirt drawer even seven years after the final field day tug-of-war. Shards of the plastic sled I shattered at Gilly Lane could make an appearance, accompanied by pink Converse high tops filled with pesky playground wood chips. I’ll finally give a proper burial to the turquoise messenger bag I proudly toted throughout elementary school, representing the very antithesis of style.

The perishables deserve a home, too. Village Market house-made mac and cheese has remained a staple food since I could chew, alongside Orem’s chocolate chip pancakes and Swamp ice cream in a wafer cone from Scoops. Though my love affair with Heibeck’s began much more recently, an order of french fries with chipotle mayo is still fair game for posterity’s sake.

Quite frankly, it’s hard to cram 18 years of life into a single underground box. In taking an abstract approach, many more euphoric feelings can be preserved for generations to come. These joys include, but are not limited to: sprinting to catch your bus in the loop, scouting out the injured kid in your class so you can walk the Turkey Trot with them instead of run, smudging your pedicure the second that you walk out of Sun Spa, riding the Gravitron at the carnival, and passing the swim test for VIP access to the dock in Camp Gordyland’s pond.

Right before I seal the box shut, I’ll be sure to include a copy of today’s Wilton Bulletin, so that whoever finds my precious parcel can both date the carefully curated items and skim through my final article in this column. Well, to the future discoverers of my time capsule: always cherish your days in this special wooded suburbia, and hold even the most foolish of memories very close to your heart.


Eve Ogdon is a senior at Wilton High School. She shares this column with five classmates.