I've heard that personal collections tell much about the people who have hoarded them. Some people become obsessed with a certain animal. Others collect a particular artist, or perhaps a type of crystal.

There are two things that I have long been fascinated with, and collect down to this day: Interesting boxes, and journals.

My fascination with boxes began at a very early age, starting with the treasure chests. When I was five years old, my mother bundled me up and carted me off to Disneyland. Everything was a clash of color and sound, whirling rides and fantastical sights at every turn. I have such vivid memories of being there in my baby blue pant suit. But over all the surreal experiences with talking parrots and giant mice dancing around me, I remember one thing gleamingly clear.

The Pirates of the Caribbean.

This ride enthralled me. Scared me. Lured me in with the mystery of pirates and their treasure.

At one point in the ride, there were treasure chests gleaming with pirate gold. I reached out, wanting to pluck one off the pile for myself, but just as soon as my little starfish hand reached out.... the cart we were riding in swung around a corner and plunged us into darkness.

From that day forward I knew I wanted a treasure chest of my very own. And I made one! I found a small plastic Barbie trunk which I very carefully placed every loose rhinestone, every piece of cut glass I could find in my mom's jewelry box. I was a scavanger, looking for anything sparkly to add to my trove.

The day arrived that my little trunk was stuffed full of glittery, shiny gems. I sat down on the floor, got out a piece of butcher paper (ripped on the edges to make it look 'old'), and set out making my Treasure Map. From my bedroom door, I paced out the steps down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen and out the back door. Taking a butter knife from the kitchen as I passed through, I counted the paces down the back steps to the sidewalk... then out across the yard to the edge of the above ground swimming pool.

Then I got tricky.

I backtracked some, and veered off beneath the Lilac tree. There was one particular limb that hung out further from the rest and I - not comprehending that time would pass and my tree would grow - made the very tip of that limb my final stop. Directly beneath it, in the green grass of our lawn, I would bury my plastic treasure chest. Butter knife marks the spot.

So I carved out a hunk of sod, and then sat down to finish my map. For effect, I drew the best skull and cross bones I could manage. Then I carefully folded my 'map' up, tucked it in with my jewels, and down into the hole my treasure chest went.

Plugging the hole back up, I ran into the house to dump the dirty knife in the sink. I couldn't stop giggling. I had my very own secret pirate's treasure, map included.

Every night I would go out and rub my toes over the grass that had died on that patch. I made sure water from the sprinkler revived it, and then watched with pride as the green started to return. But, of course... summer ended. School started. I soon traded in obsession with my treasure for the experiences of kindergarten.

But I never lost my fascination with boxes.

Years later, as my parents would take me to the Gun and Antique shows at local county fairgrounds, I would leave my Dad's table where he would be showing all of his firearms, and I would wander the rows of antiques. Every now and then, I would find a box that would catch my eye. Perhaps a small wooden one, with carvings on the top. Once, a large black lacquered one with red velvet lining. Another time, it was an old hat box from Paris. All of these lovely things I scuttled back home with, to add to my collection.

And then came the journals.

My mom gave me my first journal. It was navy blue with a gold lock, and the word "Diary" stamped on the front in gold leaf. I was clumsy with my entries, writing about my day in one and two sentence statements. "It rained and Chinook (our dog at the time) didn't come to the bus stop with me." "Sari (my best friend) wore new shoes today."

Such simple, bold statements of life that was no bigger than the space around me. But I was hooked. Journals were just like treasure chests, only this time...I could write the jewels. I could fill it with as many as I wanted, and they were secret, which of course was paramount for any REAL treasure.

I kept my journals in my boxes, which gave me double the pleasure. Sometimes I would carry one of the boxes over to my bed, just to open it up and sift through the contents, no matter how many times I had done it before. Maybe that night's choice would be the small cedar box which was an advertisement for real cedar hope chests. It had a key that I could lock and unlock it with. Inside were tiny trinkets, paper momentos, and a small pink flowered journal I had bought with my own money. I loved these tokens of my life. They were proof of my existence. Of where I had been. Of what I personally found interesting.

My simple joys from these two things have not waned with time. I spy a hand crafted journal that ties with a strip of leather, and I immediately want to buy it. I see a box with dark wood thatching across the top and a curious lock on it, oooooh - I want to make it mine. I want to take them, and fill them up to the brim with my treasures...so that when they are sitting on the shelves looking lovely and enigmatic, I can tell myself.... There's treasure in there.

So... years have passed. But when I look out the window of the childhood home I grew up in, and see the lilac bush having grown so huge.... I smile to myself. Somewhere out there, beneath the limbs that have stretched out over the thick green grass, is a tiny plastic pirate's chest nestled deep in the ground with the worms and pebbles and brown dirt.

And you know what?

There's treasure in there.....