Maybe it’s generational, but giving money seems impersonal.

Another kid I know made it from 8th grade to high school. I’m headed out of town and couldn’t make it to his promotion exercise.

My parents presented me with a wristwatch for barely passing algebra class. I searched through a box and gave him that wind-up watch and my first Apple Watch.

Analog meets digital.

Another second cousin is getting married.

I’m sorting through boxes of family treasures that once belonged to my grandparents. Every item comes with a story attached. I remember the story, take a picture, and cut ties with the object.

The good news is that younger family members are emerging as willing custodians. Most of my inherited “treasures” have been sitting in my office and storage area long enough to qualify for residency.

It’s time for a new lease.

As I sort through the past, I think about my own high school graduation.

My parents were practical people. They sent me off to Hastings College with a set of molded steel American Tourister luggage and a Smith Corona electric typewriter.

Not a stereo.

Not a car.

Not a television.

Looking back, I suspect they wanted to make sure I had every tool necessary to launch successfully into adulthood.

In reality, they kicked me out of the nest. “Don’t come back, unless it’s for your baseball cards and other assorted childhood stuff.”

The typewriter turned out to be one of the best gifts I ever received.

I learned to touch type in summer school before I took off for college, a prison sentence.

“Can type, ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country,’ 100 words per minute. Willing to learn other phrases.”

For those under the age of 50, generations developed repetitive stress injuries typing that patriotic declaration over and over.

At the time, I thought typing was another boring skill adults insisted was important.

Turns out it paid the bills.

Over the years, typing helped me write newspaper stories, magazine articles, grant applications, reports, blogs, books, and enough emails to fill several libraries.

I still make money because I can sit down and move my fingers faster than my brain can talk me out of an idea.

The luggage disappeared somewhere along the journey. The hinges on the Pullman started to go from packing it too full over the years. I think I jettisoned the luggage in Lander. Suitcase wheels came out around that time.

The typewriter is long gone, too, replaced by computers that have more processing power than NASA had when it sent astronauts to the moon.

One thing leads to another.

I’ve collected typewriters since I watched “California Typewriters” with Tom Hanks. I’m selling those at the Wyoming Writers Conference.

As I pass family heirlooms to younger relatives, I wonder which items will matter 50 years from now.

Will it be the painting?

The books?

The family photographs?

Or will it be some random object that’s unremarkable today?

That’s the secret.

The gifts that change our lives aren’t always the exciting ones. They’re the molded steel luggage that says, “Go see the world.”

They’re the typewriter that says, “Learn this. You’ll thank us later.”

Mom and Dad were right.

I hate when that happens.