When I was a kid, I really wanted a metal detector for Christmas

Host: The garage was dim, lit by a single swinging bulb that cast slow-moving shadows over dusty shelves, old tools, and forgotten dreams. A cardboard box labeled “XMAS DECOR” sat half-open in the corner, a faint smell of pine and nostalgia hanging in the air.
Outside, the wind pressed against the door, carrying the distant sound of children laughing — the kind of laughter that only exists in December.

Jack knelt near a pile of boxes, pulling out an object wrapped in faded newspaper. When he unwrapped it, the metal detector gleamed weakly in the light, a relic from another time. Jeeny stood by the workbench, arms folded, smiling softly, her eyes glinting with the kind of warmth that comes from recognizing childhood ghosts.

Jeeny: gently, with amusement “Peter Billingsley once said — ‘When I was a kid, I really wanted a metal detector for Christmas, convinced I was going to find buried treasure and could retire at 12. Santa Claus brought me one, but sadly, that treasure was never realized. It's amazing how many bottle caps you have to dig up. But to be honest, that dream is still alive.’”

Jack: laughing, holding up the metal detector “You’re kidding me. I had one of these too. Dug up half my backyard before my dad threatened to bury me instead.”

Jeeny: grinning “Did you find anything?”

Jack: “Oh, yeah. A heroic collection of nails, soda tabs, and exactly one very disappointed frog.”

Host: The light bulb flickered, and the metal of the detector caught the glow for just a second — like the shimmer of a dream refusing to die.

Jeeny: “It’s kind of beautiful though, isn’t it? That innocence. To believe the earth itself was hiding riches just for you.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. Back then, the whole world felt like a promise waiting to be dug up.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: shrugs “Now it feels like I’m the one buried — under bills, expectations, time. The treasure’s still there, I guess. Just deeper.”

Host: The wind howled faintly, rattling the windows like a reminder. Jeeny stepped closer, brushing the dust off an old tin sign on the wall. It read, “NO TRESPASSING.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s the problem. Somewhere along the way, we started labeling wonder as trespassing.”

Jack: looking up “You mean we stopped digging?”

Jeeny: “No. We just forgot what we were looking for.”

Host: A long silence settled — the kind that isn’t heavy but full, like soil before it’s turned over.

Jack: softly “You know, as a kid, I used to imagine finding gold coins, secret keys, maybe a map. But every time I dug something up, even the trash, there was this rush. The moment before you knew what you’d found — that was the magic.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The mystery mattered more than the result. The hope itself was the treasure.”

Jack: grinning “So what, I should start digging again?”

Jeeny: smiling “Why not? You might not find gold, but you might find joy.”

Host: The bulb above them buzzed, the light warming to a deeper amber, the room feeling smaller, softer. Jack stood, turning the metal detector on. It gave a faint, nostalgic hum — like an old song remembered halfway through.

Jack: “You ever notice how every childhood dream, no matter how small, holds some version of the adult we become?”

Jeeny: “What do you mean?”

Jack: “Think about it. A kid with a metal detector isn’t really looking for coins — he’s looking for proof that magic exists. That somewhere, the world’s still got secrets worth chasing.”

Jeeny: nodding, softly “And growing up doesn’t kill that — it just buries it under practicality.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. The treasure’s still there, like Billingsley said. We just get better at not looking.”

Host: The sound of the detector beeped, faint but sharp — the false alarm of buried memory. Jack crouched, brushed the floor, and pulled up an old rusted key. He laughed softly, holding it up like a prize.

Jeeny: amused “See? You found something.”

Jack: “Yeah. Not what I wanted, but exactly what I needed.”

Jeeny: “That’s how dreams work. They never show up as promised, but they always show up as lessons.”

Host: She leaned against the workbench, watching him — the metal detector resting against his shoulder, the key dangling in his hand, a grown man caught between yesterday and tomorrow.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The treasure’s not under the ground. It’s in the fact that you’re still looking.”

Jack: quietly “So as long as I don’t stop searching…”

Jeeny: “…you never really grow old.”

Host: Outside, the wind died, replaced by the slow drip of melting snow from the roof. The garage seemed to exhale — a small sigh of contentment, of acceptance.

Jack: after a pause “You ever wonder what Santa represents, really?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Faith in wonder. The belief that magic and generosity can exist at the same time. Maybe that’s what Billingsley meant — that the dream’s still alive because he never stopped believing in both.”

Jack: “And the metal detector?”

Jeeny: “Hope. The tool we use to search the invisible.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, turning the device off. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of small things: the warmth of memory, the gravity of gratitude, the quiet hum of belief.

Because Peter Billingsley was right —
the dream never dies. It just waits for you to dig again.

As children, we look for buried treasure in the dirt.
As adults, we look for it in each other, in meaning, in moments.

The earth still hums with promise —
and sometimes, even bottle caps glint like gold if you find them with wonder.

As Jack and Jeeny stood in the doorway, looking out at the world washed clean by rain,
the metal detector leaned against the wall, silent but patient —
a reminder that the best dreams never grow old.

They just wait,
under the surface,
for us to remember
how to look.