Boxes

A friend of mine who is moving recently put out an appeal for boxes. I was able to help. There are always spare boxes kicking around my house. Yeah, my pantry is a hot mess, but I do hate to throw out a good box.

Hi, my name is Tracy and I’m a box-o-phile. I think it’s genetic. I got it from my grandmother. She was always on the lookout for boxes. No evening trip through town with Mama Dear was complete without a stop at the bin behind M.E. Moses. I’m still not sure why she needed all those boxes. Now that I know how grandmothers work, I suspect she that wanted to please me more than she needed to replenish her supply. I certainly always got a bang out of those treasure hunts in that alley.

There’s just something magical about an empty box.  Boats, forts, spaceships, and hiding places when you’re In Trouble are all possible with a good box. It’s been years since I’ve drawn headlights and grill with a magic marker and zoomed away the afternoon, but I remember. I remember.

THE BOX that we are encouraged to think outside of has become a symbol of all things restrictive and reactionary. Maybe that’s a decently helpful image, but the boy in me knows that really creative thinking happens while surrounded by corrugated cardboard.