When my wife and I recently celebrated our 25th anniversary, we were, of course, excited about the milestone, which only about two-fifths of American couples attain. But we were more excited about opening a cylindrical metal canister that we filled shortly after our wedding, which has remained untouched for the past quarter century.
We received the time capsule as a gift from my late mother, something that we did not even remember until we opened it. The capsule came with forms to fill out and instructions on things to insert, most of which were dutifully done by my wife. While I knew of the time capsule, and we discussed it often, with increasing frequency in recent years, neither my wife nor I remembered what was actually in it after all these years.
The first thing we had to do was retrieve the thing from deep in the back of a basement closet. I had to stand on a chair to reach the surprisingly heavy canister, and pulling it out was harder than I expected. To join us in unlocking this 25-year secret, we invited my brother and sister-in-law to a celebratory dinner at a Thai restaurant. My sister-in-law was instrumental in setting us up back in 1998, so we felt it was important to have her share in the experience. We also brought along our two daughters, who have been dreaming of opening this treasure chest since they were little girls.
After we ate, I put the time capsule on the table and began cutting through the tape that seals it shut. When I pried off the lid, we were surprised to see the entire 12-inch high, 8-inch across cylinder jam-packed with approximately 402 cubic inches of stuff. "It's like a hoarder time capsule," my wife said. Obviously, this was more material than could be sorted through during dessert.
Instead of a few pieces of memorabilia, it was more like the beginnings of a collection for the Kami and Tevi Troy Wedding Year Museum. My wife and I were married on Aug. 15, 1999. And the random, overly inclusive collection of stuff in our time capsule had a lot to say about the things that have changed for all of us in the past quarter century — not just for my family but for everyone. We knew we would find notes from family members, some of whom, like my parents, have passed. But we also found newspaper clippings. I didn't recall anything noteworthy happening that day, but I was curious to see if I was right. My memory was correct. George W. Bush won the Iowa straw poll, and longtime AFL-CIO leader Lane Kirkland died. The headlines of the 2020s are much more disturbing.
Time capsules like these generally have notes from the bride and groom in which they talk about what their lives were like at the time. I knew we went out to the movies a lot more then than we do now. We also were quite regular users of our Blockbuster video card. Of course, there was no streaming at the time. Smartphones, which are now such central parts of our lives, didn't exist then, which is probably one reason why so many people have fond memories of the 1990s.
The capsule included a 1999 issue of Entertainment Weekly, which no longer exists in print form in our day, highlighting the "Best of 1999." First place was the long-forgotten Ricky Martin, but South Park, Jerry Seinfeld, and Denzel Washington, all of which are still with us, were featured as well.
More unexpected was a collection of over a dozen "Playbills" of shows we saw in New York and Washington while we were dating. These included well-known musicals like Cabaret, Chicago, and Rent but also forgettable flops like Jekyll & Hyde. The playbills accounted in part for the capsule's unexpected weight but also surprised me in terms of the number of shows we used to see. Moving from downtown Washington to the Maryland suburbs accounts for part of this shift in our entertainment selections, but another component is the "woke-ification" of theater these days. My wife and I have long complained that we would like to go to more shows, but it is harder and harder to find shows that do not bang us over the head with progressive politics. This time capsule, revealing our late 1990s devotion to theater, is further evidence of this unfortunate 21st-century reality.
There were other surprises in there as well. My wife and I have long told our children that they can't have pets because we signed a "no pet" contract. I'm sure they thought it was just a theoretical contract, but there it was, signed and dated, inside the capsule. I worked at the time for Sen. John Ashcroft. I have not spoken to him in years, but there, inside the capsule, was a lovely letter from him congratulating us on our wedding. I also found a description of my daily work life. This listing noted that at 11:50 a.m., I read "on internet" the Hotline, the legendary but now long-gone summary of the key news of the day and an ancestor of today's ubiquitous tip sheets like Politico Playbook.
Capsule kits also typically ask the couple for some predictions. I did not predict having four children or the particular suburb we live in, but having multiple children and living in a Washington-area suburb would not have been a wild guess. As it turns out, I listed as my career aspiration to "find a job that lets me write books while supporting Kami and the kids," so I guess I'm living my professional dream. But the reflection it gave me, more than any other, is not about cultural and technological shifts since 1999, or about whether my life has turned out how I thought it would. The time capsule brought home a truth that no one married for 25 years can take for granted: that we are still together. I'm sure that's what I would've predicted on my wedding day, but most couples predict the same thing, and we know statistically that a majority of them predict incorrectly.
As for the capsule itself, the anticipation we felt leading up to its opening, as well as the commitment that got us here, have certainly made the project worthwhile. I have already suggested to my wife that we refill and reseal the canister for our 50th anniversary. Stand by for an update in 2049.