When I was 17 my father gave me his footlocker. I’ve treasured it ever since.

I took it with me to college, where it occasionally contained contraband but usually just my stuff.

I stored it with my folks that year between university and marriage, but I reacquired it as soon as I had my own place again. It’s been close ever since.

It now acts as side table in my Berkeley cottage.

My mother once disparaged it, commenting that it wasn’t a “real” footlocker. I think what she meant was that it was made instead of bought. Dad got a metal box somewhere, fitted it with hinges and a lock, made a drop-in shelf for it and applied supports for that inside, painted it Army green, and stenciled his name, rank and serial number on its outside (all sides, maybe required but typical of my dad anyway).

It has remnants of shipping stickers still on it. They are from the Territory of Hawaii.

A few years ago I hung his dog tags on one of the handles.

That footlocker may be my most prized possession. I love its size and shape and I view it as one of the witnesses of my life.

I’m not sure what all it contains. Occasionally I open it but I never look at everything. I know there are old letters, old journals, college papers, pictures, ancient stuffed toys. You know: treasures and junk.

The year I didn’t have it, from mid-1971 to mid-1972, I mostly spent in Israel. That’s not true – the trip was about 4 months out of 12 – but it was the time when I first left the country and the only time I left it long enough to sense what it would be like to live outside the US. I may want to write about those experiences. I know there are some diaries in the footlocker. I’m getting ready now to open it.