The Box

Most of us accumulate a lot of junk as we age.  Boxes of dishes, books, gadgets and clutter sit in piles in our basement and I can’t help but wonder what in the world our children will do with all of our clutter when we leave this earth.  What items will they keep to remind them of the life we lived together?  What items will they sell without blinking an eye?  What should we save? What should we throw away? What will they find valuable? What will stir up a memory or an emotion from days gone by?

When my husband’s mother died many years ago he was left with nothing. Nada. Zilch.  Not a single thing to remember her by.  Not a picture, not a photo album, not a book, not a dish…literally nothing he could hold in his hand or put on a shelf to remind him of her life or the life he once lived with her.

She didn’t plan it that way of course, as she died unexpectantly without a will and with a boyfriend who acquired what little was left behind.  Yet my husband Jeff held no ill will towards his mother or her boyfriend. He made his peace years ago, but he would sometimes talk about certain items from his childhood that held meaning for him and how he wondered what had happened to some of those small possessions from his childhood.  One particular item that held special meaning for him was a small 5 x 5-inch wooden box that Jeff built at the boy’s club in 1978 when he was just 12 years old.  It was the very first thing that he ever built with his hands… a simple cedar and velvet lined box for his mother.  “I wonder if she saved that box” he would say. 

Fast forward to Thanksgiving Eve 2019.  Our doorbell rang around midnight and to our delight it was our nephew Dougie who had arrived from Indiana, after a four-hour trip, with his children and wife in tow. Dougie gave my husband a big ole marine / tough guy handshake and hug. Then like a real-life Santa, in an after school special, our nephew pulled out a surprise that my husband was not expecting.  Dougie held in his hands the 41-year-old box that Jeff spoke so frequently about over the years. The box was small, old, colorful, cracked and chipped.  It was perfection. A 41-year-old masterpiece built by a 12-year-old boy in 1978.  The box somehow found its way home to the man who created him.

I hope our nephew knows the true value and significance of what he was able to give to his Uncle Jeff on Thanksgiving Eve. It was a simple but beautiful gesture and gift.  And I wonder if Jeff’s mother knew just how talented her son was when he gave her that little box 41 years ago. Did she recognize the detail and love he poured into his work? His mother would surely be proud to know that he progressed from building a little cedar box to building beautiful barns, outbuildings, porches, decks, fireplaces, mantles, tables and cabinets.  She would surely be proud to know that the fidgety kid who didn’t like sitting still or being in school would go on and find his niche in the world by using his calloused and large hands to earn a great living to provide for his wife and his two children.  He used his hands to give to his family what was never given to him.

Some might consider it tragic but the wise will see the blessing. The blessing is that my husband didn’t inherit what most people do upon the death of a parent. The blessing is that from poverty you stand a pretty good chance of inheriting character, strength, wisdom, compassion and a relentless drive to succeed.

There is no basement to clean out. No dishes to unpack. No books to stack. No home to sell.  No car to donate. No land to plow.  Yet tonight Jeff is at peace because a little cedar box, lined with velvet and built with love, found its way home after 41 years. 

The old cedar box sits front and center on Jeff’s dresser reminding him of days gone by.  Days that he thought he wanted to forget, until he realized he needed to remember.

By Teresa McIntosh-Hall

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Teresa McIntosh-Hall is a writer, blogger, social worker and political activist.