Apple Boxes
July 29, 2009
When I was little, my family and I spent a year living in Vancouver. I’m surprised by the vivid memories of that short time—it made quite an impression, quite possibly because I didn’t hate it. I shared a miniscule L-shaped bedroom with my brother and my sister in an ancient, tiny house in the east end. I didn’t mind the close quarters or the loss of my private (bigger) bedroom in Smithers, because my mom was a genius and gave me my very own box. I’m pretty sure it was an apple box, because its lid had square holes like apple box tops often do and slid down over the sturdier box beneath it.
Having my own box was way cooler than having a whole room to myself. No one was allowed in the box without my implicit permission. I stored the box at the foot of the top bunk (also my space, though I would let my brother come up to visit) and kept a myriad of treasures in it: My doll Raggedy Anne’s full wardrobe, made by my inspired Auntie Anne (the similarity in names was not a coincidence), bottle caps (because some kid in a storybook collected them), a small white and purple ceramic cow that my grandpa had won at a carnival (and he’d won one for my auntie/bestfriend too), a rubber elf lying on his back with a bright red ladybug perched on his bended knee (from my grandma’s flower shop in Smithers), comics from my Auntie Mary—and oh, so many more great things.
Having that small space to tuck my stuff into, keeping it safe until I wanted to pull it out and look at it, play with it, and dream over it made me feel like I had all the wealth in the world. One afternoon, in a fit of wild generosity, I decided to treat my brother by letting him in on the ceremony of going through the box. We were both disappointed.
On his side: The mystery and hype surrounding the hidden, secretive nature of the box had been absolutely captivating for him, but the actual contents were surprising and not in a good way. “But it’s just junk,” he said (or something to that effect).
On my side: This was my treasure chest we were talking about. If he had fallen prostrate on the bed and said, “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy,” I might have been satisfied that his response was somewhere in the realm of appropriate. I definitely expected awed respect and grovelling appreciation for his being allowed to see the precious contents.
Still I suppose the experience was worthwhile. I learned that value is in the eye of the beholder. Whenever I opened that box, I saw and felt much more than the item I happened to pull out. I saw the face of whoever gave it to me, or made it for me, or played with it with me . . . The apple box (though I couldn’t have articulated it this way at the time) was the whole extended family and friend support system that we’d moved away from. By holding onto those contents, I held onto each person.
I also learned that some memories or observations—regarding the really special, personal things—are best kept tucked away for your own perusal.
My husband recently complained that he’d been on my website and saw that there weren’t a lot of articles about him mentioned there (He was joking; he doesn’t actually want me to write about him—though he also doesn’t mind, which is good, considering here I am). Somehow through this small conversation, I started thinking about apple boxes and him, and how he’s right.
As much as I refer to him, our kids, and friends in general (as really, they do inspire a lot my “Just a Thoughts”), I seldom give a lot of specific details about them. I think it’s because together they make up my flesh and blood apple box and our lives together are the whatnot that fill it.
A lot of people have families and most people have friends. On the surface, shared details might make it seem like everyone’s relationships are kind of the same, kind of mundane. But even while that’s sort of true, it’s not true at all. Each nuance is as unique as it is common. It can be lovely and valuable to share, but it’s not necessary and it might even be disappointing if someone else doesn’t see your treasure the same way you do. What’s important is that you secret away all those special inane things and have an apple box of your own.
First published in The Terrace Standard, July 22, 2009
