Deep in a corner of the family room, next to the piano, there was a large wooden chest tucked just away from plain sight. It was large and ornate and it stuck out tremendously from the rest of the modernist, suburban decor that filled the house. I remember asking my mother about it one day. Apparently, the chest was brought to the US from Norway by my great-great grandparents. As she spoke about it, she rolled her eyes and indicated annoyance towards it. To my child's brain, I was fascinated to be in the presence of such an old, mysterious object that seemed to hold such power. Having grown up and experienced move after move, and having had to deal with the chest so many times to maintain the great legacy of my great-great grandparents, I now understand the eye roll. It's just a chest. An old, heavy chest that no one wants.