It’s been almost 15 years since my family buried a time-capsule near our cabin. In a grand ceremony with Kahlua in our coffee, we found a perfect spot in the mountains and dug a deep hole beneath the shadows of the Pine trees that towered above us. I can’t remember what we put it the capsule, or even what we made it with, but more importantly at this point nobody can even remember where we hid it.
So there is a good chance that in 50, 100, or 500 years somebody outside our family may trip over it, accidently dig it out, or smell something funny coming up from the ground near it. What they may find if they are inclined to take a look inside, other than an empty bottle of Kahlua, is that we were a collection of eclectics, each with a surface attachment to something material, all with a deep devotion to our family. They’d probably conclude that the gadgets we were willing to part with were oddly useless and the only things truly interesting enough to take with them to ponder would be the pictures, letters, and hats. Hats? Even some material things stand the test of time (it’s just not those things with batteries required).
Prompt: 500 years from now, an archaeologist accidentally stumbles on the ruins of your home, long buried underground. What will she learn about early-21st-century humans by going through (what remains of) your stuff?