The Box

Today, like many days, I traveled the winding mud soaked path that led to my workshop. I had something that needed to be done and it could not wait; a few days before I inherited a box from my father. This was no ordinary box, this was his box, and I was eager to see what had long been forbidden, what was so captivating, so private, so personal. Now, though it was mine, at least in possession, but I desperately wanted to make it mine. His recent passing made the walk all the more solemn.

For years I had admired this box from afar. We all knew all too well to actually look inside. It sat atop his dresser and contained his treasures. Treasures that today would loose their mystique and become reality.

I felt my feet slip as I open the door into the familiar darkness that was my workshop; everything had it place in this chaos that I called order. Fumbling for the light switch, I quickly tried to remember where everything was on the floor before the lights revealed their domain. Fearing that my memory was not as accurate as I hoped, I froze my advance as my fingers searched the breaker box for the appropriate switches that would reveal my sanctuary.

Moving over to my work bench I searched for a place for the revealing, moving scraps of old sandpaper, a broken screwdriver, and with the reverence of a minister consecrating the elements at the Eucharist, I gently lay the box on the bench.

The box hailed from an old hardware store, once used as a catalogue for credit references. It appears to be made of pine, but I am not sure, its dark finish is crackling with age. As I hold it to the light I can see that the finger joints are tight. The hinges are small and the lid is a perfect fit. I marvel at its craftsmanship, and I wonder about its maker. Did he know that this simple box would mean so much to someone so many years later? Could he have known that many decades later his simple box would reveal a lifetime of someone we never really knew at all? Nevertheless, here it is, and it is mine now.

Emotions race through my veins, I fight to hold back tears and rage as memories of a childhood flash before my minds eye. Slowly, I raise the lid of this cryptic tomb to reveal things whose meanings are as lost as my memory. Old pocket knives honed beyond practical use, business cards whose color remind me of my wife’s sun tea revealing his previous jobs and previous failures, cuff links with trains on them, tie clips as broad as a tongue depressor. And an old black and white picture of my mother. There was a change purse, and one tarnished 50 cents piece. I never knew why he always carried the 50 cents piece, but he always had it with him. I wish now I had asked.

The evening turns into night as I respectfully exhume each relic from its place. One by one I removed them from the box; each telling its own story of someone we called Dad, but never really knew. Some items brought back memories of the house we lived in, the smell of Sunday morning apple turnovers, and a happy time, while others brought only recollections of missed opportunities.

I placed them on my workbench in some sort of order, lining them up by size and function as if this would reveal the reason these were saved. Was it intentional that these items were in here or was it by accident? Why these cuff links? Why this change purse? He had always carried a change purse, in fact he was the only man I knew who did, I recall him going though several through my life with him, why was this one saved? What is the significance? As I struggled to make sense of these mementos, I realized that I would never fully understand. He was gone now, perhaps Mom could explain, perhaps she had some insight into the randomness of his treasures. Were they really treasures at all, or were they simply afterthoughts, items whose function had faded with his smile, and whose memory was lost in his stroke laden brain. Perhaps all I really have is a time capsule of a life that meant nothing to so many, and everything to so few.

Nevertheless it is mine now; it is a safe place for my treasures and afterthoughts. A place my children will look at in wonder and amazement. It is a place where dreams are kept safe, lives are interned and wonderment abounds.

I have already been collecting for this day; I too have some old knives of my own to place in here. There are collections of rocks from places I have visited, business cards from long lost jobs, and careers gone haywire. Items that to anyone else would be called junk at best, but to me are priceless. There is the casing from the bullet used to kill my biggest deer. A father’s day card signed by all five of my children, there is the lure used to catch my biggest fish, and a picture of my oldest son on his first hunt. I will also place some items that for no good reason have to have a home. There are 5 $2.00 bills, collected before I knew how many I would need. Some handmade wing-bone turkey calls and a couple of knives I made years ago. I have already envisioned how they will fit and where they will lay.

My mind is drawn back to the box, as I lay it on the workbench. With all of its beauty, it needs a new bottom, and today I am going to make one for it. Carefully taking measurements so it will fit snug, I gingerly cut and place the bottom in this box, wondering if its original maker would approve of my work.

I stand there for the longest, and wonder, my mind rushes to the day my children walk the mud soaked path to the workshop to remove this battered old box from its hiding place. I envision a ceremony of sorts, as they all gather around the supper table with their children and reveal my capsule. I see my oldest removing item after item, telling stories and hearing the laughter and seeing tears as they recount another moment from my life. My only hope is that the laughter will be honest, and the tears will be of joy. Until then, I will complete this task, place the items back inside and leave it alone. Maybe tomorrow, I will replace his items with mine. It is not time now, but soon it will be, and I will know that it is right.