Buried in the greenhouse at the bottom of the Garden was treasure.  Real life, buried in a bag, treasure.  The short and somewhat simple treasure hunt had lead me to the muggy, funny smelling greenhouse; promises of a 'really cool' present from my Dad had gotten me this far.  I was twelve years old.  Or eleven.  Young enough to still appreciate hidden presents and prospective treasure.

The hot soil gave way and wrapped tightly in a plastic bag was a small package; it felt like a book, and gr...