This weekend, my hometown opened a time capsule buried on July 4, 1976.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has insisted there's a photograph of me with my preschool class tucked away inside. Later this week, when the contents go on display, I'll finally find out if she's right.
Watching that time capsule being opened inspired me to unearth my own.
Back in January 2000, inspired by an idea in FamilyFun magazine, my family created a time capsule to celebrate the new millennium.
We tucked it away and followed my handwritten instructions on the outside:
"Do not open until January 1, 2025."
(We were a little late.)
Inside were local newspapers, grocery store circulars, a TV Guide, photographs of our home, a Y2K lapel pin (remember that?), a letter I'd written to my young son, and dozens of little reminders of everyday life at the turn of the century.
At first, I thought little had changed.
My kids looked at the photographs and laughed.
"Is that the same refrigerator?"
Then I looked out the window.
Twenty-six years ago, my son was a toddler.
Today, his little boy runs through that very same backyard.
The cars in the driveway have changed.
The house is a different color.
Furniture has come and gone.
Even the woods surrounding our home have changed, with tiny saplings growing into towering trees while others have quietly fallen.
But that's not what caught my attention.
Twenty-six years ago, our backyard was mostly a blank slate.
There wasn't an apple tree shading the corner of the yard.
No irises that a friend had divided from her own garden and shared with me.
No hanging baskets swaying on the porch.
No birdbath my children would one day give me.
No shrubs planted one weekend at a time.
It wasn't yet the backyard I know today.
Back then, the birds were here.
They just weren't part of my life.
They stayed mostly in the woods beyond the yard, singing from a distance while I hurried through another busy day.
I noticed them, but only occasionally.
It wasn't until one summer morning in 2019 that I finally stopped long enough to listen.
Curiosity became birdwatching.
Birdwatching became bird feeding.
And somewhere along the way, my backyard began to change right along with me.
One birdbath.
One feeder.
One flower.
One season at a time.
Maybe that's true of every backyard.
The beautiful ones aren't built all at once.
They're created through years of small decisions.
Planting one more flower.
Adding one more feeder.
Filling it one more time.
Pausing long enough to notice who came to visit that morning.
Twenty-six years from now, my grandson may remember this backyard very differently than I do.
He probably won't remember every flower we planted or every project we tackled.
But I hope he'll remember the goldfinches taking turns at the feeder.
The bluebirds raising another family.
The song of a Wood Thrush drifting in from the woods.
The quiet mornings when all we had to do was look out the window.
Those are the things that become the real time capsules.
Not the boxes we bury.
The ordinary moments we never expect to become unforgettable.
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About Susan
Susan Vandergriff is the founder of Happy Birdwatcher. She writes Backyard Stories, a collection of personal essays about birds, family, and the ordinary moments that make a backyard feel like home.