Shoe Box Memories

Shoe boxes. You know, those cardboard containers that held a new pair of footwear. Dress shoes, runners or casual. It didn't really matter to me. Once the shoes were out of the box, it was the box that I hung onto. Some years ago, I developed a habit of tossing this and that into those boxes. When they were full, up into a closet they went. I know that some contain things that I emptied out of my pockets onto the entry shelf. Or clutter that built up on my desk and I wasn't sure I wanted to get rid of. So, into the boxes they went. Old scorecards, tees, golf balls, notes and Lord knows what other things you may find in some of the early ones. From time to time, I may be looking for something and think I may have dumped it in one of those boxes. I will haul a couple of them down for a look see and rummage through them hoping to find what it was I was searching for. Sometimes with luck, sometimes without.

After awhile, I started bringing home the boxes that printer paper comes in. I began storing books that I have read or others that were just cluttering up my space. Some of the boxes contained vacation memories. Where I went, postcards , itineraries, plane tickets and those tourist pamphlets. These too, found there way into a closet or storage cupboard. Subconsciously, I had a feeling I knew what I was doing. I was creating little time capsules of my life. Why I was, or rather am doing this, may or may not be a mystery. It is almost like I am telling stories of my life based on the contents of the box. What I was doing, where I was or people that passed through my life. It has become a comfortable habit which you may think a little strange. But to me, they are tidbits of my existence.

Of the three boxes that are shown at the top of this piece, the contents of the top box are shown above. This is the one box that never gets put away. There are some black and white memories of my mother. Her death certificate. Notes from the hotel where I was making funeral arrangements. If you look closely, you can see the odd picture of me taken when I was much younger and skinnier. Right on the top of the pile, a couple of memories from the first foster home we were guests at. There are no pictures from the second one. The tiny picture in the oval frame is the only baby picture I have of me. This photo was on my mother's bedside table in her apartment. There are some coloured Polaroids of the famous Christmas boot incident. Just a collection of odds and sods really of the early part of my life's journey. I don't know how I came to have this collection but I do know that they are one of a kind which is probably why I keep them close by.

For years I've gone places and done things without bothering to record the events. Relying on my memory. Whenever I did take pictures, the undeveloped films sat around until they could no longer be processed obliterating the memories. There are probably other undeveloped film in some of those buried boxes amongst other pieces of my past life. Who knows. In the past few years, I no longer take events of my life as trivial. Of course, it is a lot easier with a digital camera and now I rarely go anywhere without it. Whether or not I decide to through these boxes remains to be seen. It would probably be a smart thing to do at some point if only to satisfy my own curiosity. A sad thought runs through my mind as I think about the contents of those boxes though. Is that after I die, those who come in to clean out my home believe that those boxes contain nothing but junk and toss them out without giving them another thought.

A couple of weeks ago, I visited a blog called Poetic Painter who had written a poem sometime back. The poem was called Inside the Boxes and was written in memory of their Grandmother. This poem is well worth a read. This piece told me that I was not alone in the performance of this unusual practice. Now I feel just a little less weird. Oh joy!