March 15, 2012
While some people stab Julius Ceasar twenty-three on the Ides of March, I spent my day doing other things--which you don't have to hear about in their dull entirety. I will say that part of the day, like part of the week has involved figuring out what to do with all the stuff that we moved into Davis's room back in January when we emptied the attic. After only 27 and a half years, Walter and I finally built the cedar closets we have been thinking about our entire married life.
But, because the semester was hot to go by the time the contractor finished, we have been somewhat slow (might I say snail-like?) in putting the good stuff back in the attic and disposing of that which deserved disposal. Today, we broke down a clothes carton that we first used when we moved to Nashville in 1990. And I felt a wee bit funny that I had a cardboard box that was almost as old as my son.
That was until I looked at a empty box I had carried to the back porch last weekend. It came into my possession when my mom closed down the travel agency she ran. It is thirty years old.
Of course, neither of those compare to the box that holds the outdoor Christmas light. I'm not sure if it or I qualified for AARP membership first.
Then I reassured myself: everyone has old cardboard boxes that they stow for years, even decades. They probably are just the right size, were sturdy to begin with, and only get used once a year, or maybe even less often than that. That reasoning comforted. Well, it comforted me up until the moment that I realized my twenty-two-year-old box and my thirty-year-old-box were empties that I had saved "just in case" I needed a box. Who in their right mind stores ancient cardboard boxes "just in case?"
Not me. Anymore. They have resumed their original flat shape and have gone to live at the recyclery. What was I thinking?