Boxes

A couple of weeks ago I was sorting through one of the many boxes from our basement shelves. The object is to sort and discard what is no longer usable or needed so that we can live a bit lighter. Some of our boxes (blush!) have not been opened since we moved to Memphis, hurriedly packing in less than a month. That was 2005, almost 15 years ago.

Sorting through these things was my intention as soon as I retired. Life happened, though, and I am beginning that project now.

As I opened this first box, loose photos and a few written bits met my gaze. As I sat that afternoon and the next, I entered a mostly forgotten time in my life when I was a young, newly minted PhD and mother of a pre-teen. We (my husband, daughter, and me) lived in a house we were gutting and rebuilding for open space living. Pictures showed a progression from bare bricks and studs that we lived with for a time, then wallboard and spackling, naked windows morphing into curtained beauties, a kitchen that was not functional for cooking for 9 months (amazing what you can do with a microwave and the bathroom sink . . . ). I remembered the endless time line of renovations done almost entirely by my husband while he was employed fulltime.

Pictures emerged from the box of our daughter in middle school — awkward but sweet — and cards for Mothers Days and tales of summer camp (“Hi, Mom and Dad, I fell out of the top bunk last night. We’re going swimming today! I really like my friend, Ginny . . . “).

I had forgotten the lushness of my gardens there so long ago. Roses and irises and zinnia’s and many others. Our magnolia trees whose blooms so lush and pink we could see from our bed in the spring. Family events, familiar places, people who surrounded us with warmth and friendship.

So many memories . . . and emotions. I loved that time of my life. It was a golden time — at least in my memory. It is easy to forget the teen and mom struggles, the work conflicts, lack of sleep when working full time and trying to complete a PhD program. Nonetheless, looking at these images of time past I got weepy and for that week, I felt on the edge of tears — grieving the loss of that younger me and wishing I could re-live that time and perhaps live it differently with some different choices.

I sound like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. It is one of my favorite pieces of literature and very wasted on eighth graders who can have little lived experience of the preciousness of life. At least I didn’t appreciate it when it was assigned in middle school. But having read and reread it many times since — such precious wisdom it offers.

“Does anyone ever appreciate life while they live it?”

I am grateful that I saved those photos and that I opened that box to let so many memories tumble out. Today I will start the next box, not knowing what it will offer, yet willing — eager — to let the memories come — even if there are tears that are also there.