I was sorting through my haphazard accumulation of doo-dads and decorations and came across an old friend. Or rather, a set of three brass camel bells that had been a gift from her.

When I first met Charlotte, she was a young mother expecting her second child. Rather shy and unsure of herself, she nevertheless exuded an air of domestic serenity. The sort of woman who made her own mayonnaise, knitted sweaters and stocking caps, coaxed sickly houseplants back to green health, sewed her own clothing, and never bought a cake mix or anything plastic. Having come to Iowa City from Paris as a young teen, she had retained a soft French accent, an old-world reserve that was both charming and limiting, and an innate good taste and classiness. She lived in an old brick house – the sort of house she once described as being “one where you can peel apples on the front porch.”

One of our sons and her oldest son were classmates and best friends, and when we moved to the country, they were twelve years old and devastated by the prospect of separation. Char did not drive (she was so terrified of machines that I marveled she could use a sewing machine) and I did a lot of hauling of boys back and forth for weekends and overnights. One summer, I tried to teach her to drive in our pasture where there was nothing to collide with, but she managed to lose to the only hazard in that sixty-acre field – a muddy creek bed – and refused to get back behind the wheel.

Char had a lot going for her. She was an exquisite seamstress, a gourmet cook, and expert in several categories of antiques. With the addition of all that goodness and charm, she didn’t need to drive a car. Someone was always willing to drive when she wanted to go somewhere. She was always taking a class, reading the latest bestseller, volunteering at school, and I began to miss her as the boys’ friendship, inevitably, began to fade.

Char’s life was suddenly and dramatically altered, first by the abrupt disintegration of her marriage, then about the time she had regained her equilibrium, the death of her mother. She was forced to take over her mother’s dress shop where she had previously helped out only during busy seasons. She was compelled to learn about loans, taxes, lawyers, investments, managing personnel, and making critical decisions. I came to regard with awe this gentle girl who had once claimed that I intimidated her.

Our lives had separated further when, to my surprise and delight, she phoned asking if we could find time to spend a day together. Knowing how she had always enjoyed a day in the country, I offered to pick her up.

“Not necessary,” she told me, “I’m driving now.” In keeping with her classy approach to life, she arrived behind the wheel of a shiny, green Mercedes-Benz. We spent a delightful day reminiscing, cooking lunch together, puttering in the new greenhouse/sun room we had recently added to our house and reminiscing about times past. One of the memories involved a mushroom hunt and picnic, complete with all our children. The fun ended abruptly with an empty gas tank on a busy highway little more than a mile from home. I went off to find a phone while Char herded the six kids across the road to sit in the shade and relative safety from the speeding cars and trucks that seemed likely to slam into my stationary station wagon. We learned a couple things that afternoon – that young children, with their sharp eyes and short legs, can spot mushrooms better than most adults. And that you have to keep a sharp eye on the gas gauge.

After living in this same house for over fifty years, I’ve unexpectedly opened up other Pandora’s boxes containing half-forgotten treasures – mementos and relics of exciting adventures, tender moments, huge challenges and important milestones.

There are, undoubtedly, other memories that got away leaving no traces, but that just makes the surviving ones more valuable.