Gray's Almost Gone

We're telling Granny stories, my cousin Nan and I. Reminiscing long distance, adding portions to our family memories. As a senior cousin, she has eleven years of tales I never lived and I eagerly listen to each one she shares. During our last conversation, there's a moment when Nan says almost pensively, "I wonder what happened to that wooden box where our toys were stored. It sat on the back porch at the farm house." She goes on to describe an incident in which she 'accidently' let the heavy lid fall on fellow cousin Frank. I can't help but giggle a bit, visualizing the scene.

In her early years, Nan was the only girl, surrounded by five very boisterous boy first cousins. From what I've heard, she more than held her own with every one of them.

I know the box which she referenced. When I was a child, it sat in a different place on the same back porch. By this time, it had been painted battleship gray, matching the porch floor. Rather than toys, an odd assortment of tools filled its roomy space. Often the smaller kids who gathered at our house sat on the box happily eating homemade peach ice cream.

This rough-hewn, almost primitive, box is solid wood. No veneers hide particle board or any other man-made product. It's heavy, substantial, built to last.



The provenance of the box is a special story. It was constructed by my Daddy in 1925, during his last year of high school. Most likely he built it in Shop, a male student course requirement for many decades. (In the 1960's, boys were still enrolled in this class while the girls, including a reluctant me, were taking Home Economics. I fared badly in that class but that's an anecdote for another time.)

When my dear brother died unexpectedly, the box was among his possessions. Stripped away was most of the gray, leaving visible modest, yet discernibly beautiful wood. With his acute artistic sensibilities, Brother sought the simple splendor of the original creation.

Nearly thirty years ago, Mother came to live with us and brought the box with her. It was moved around our house, settling briefly in different rooms. To my knowledge, no children ever climbed inside seeking a place to play. I still sense Daddy's spirit, captured in a simple box.



Today, this precious family heirloom is situated at the foot of the bed in our guest room. It is stuffed with Christmas gift bags, tissue paper, a few miscellaneous rolls of ribbon. The once secure lock has been lost for a long, long time. Heavy handles anchor each end and facilitate its transport. Stains of unknown origin mark the lid and a distinct wood aroma permeates the deep recesses of the box.




If boxes could talk, I'm certain mine would share wonderful stories. Instead, I picture Daddy with his dark black hair, leaning over tools, creating this legacy. I see rambunctious cousins cavorting around the farmhouse's back porch. Soon they are being admonished to curtail their noise because their grandfather is very ill, lying in a bed nearby. Years later, newer cousins vie for a seat on top of the box, a prime location on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon.

Yes, the gray's almost gone. The box is nearly ninety years old. I hope it lasts forever and continues to smell like home.