I have a wondrous, wooden box given
to me by my father-in-law. After my mother-in-law’s death, he
made a point of giving all his sons, their wives, and grandchildren amazing
gifts, to last a lifetime and more.
The
box is small, about 18” by 12”. It
is made of yellow wood – an indigenous South African wood, Podocarpus. It is smooth to the touch, and with age the color has
darkened to a rich, warm, golden yellow.
The box is hinged, with a lockable latch on the outside. Inside is a
removable tray with compartments, and below the tray is an open space in which
I have stored smaller boxes.
My
box is full of treasures that delight me profoundly. I have strong emotional
reactions when I look at the contents. There is a small box with two tiny
carved animals, a buck and a rhino inside. These remind me of the time when I
was about 8 and, with my sisters, we went to a Christmas party with my mother. There
was a huge pile of gifts under the fake Christmas tree. I scanned the gifts, and located some
nice big ones. I hoped one was for me. When Father Christmas distributed
the gifts, not only did I not get a big present, but as the pile of parcels got
smaller and smaller, it looked as if there was no gift for me at all. I was devastated. Then Father Christmas
called my name. He gave me a gift the size of a matchbox. Still feeling
mortified, I didn’t open it until I was in the car going home. I carelessly unwrapped my gift and then
realized I had been given a treasure – the two tiny animals were perfectly
carved. I was overjoyed. The
lesson was plain to see.
Another
small box contains my father’s war medals and some buttons from his RAF uniform
resides in my box. He was a Royal Air Force pilot in World War 2, and spent a
lot of time flying in North Africa and the Mediterranean region. My Dad never
talked about his war experiences. I think he suffered from what we would now
call post-traumatic stress syndrome, and memories were too painful I also have
a stack of letters written by my father to my mother during the war years. She
kept them in her dressing table tied with a blue ribbon. I have never read
these letters that are now in my safe-keeping. I feel it would be too intrusive
in the intimate relationship of a newly married couple during the grueling
years of the war.
There
is another box containing miniatures that was given to me by my grandmother. A
tiny Chinese vase, about an inch high, a miniature tea set, a woven basket, a
regal stool covered in blue velvet with jewels all around. I image my grandmother
had a penchant for miniatures and she passed this on to me.
As
a child I was a devoted royalist. When Queen Elizabeth was crowned in 1953 I
was given a miniature of the coronation coach complete with horses. For me,
this was a fairy-tale event, and I used to squint into the carriage to see if I
could spot Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, the young couple who would reign over
my world.
I also have
a set of three ballet dancers, each about two inches high. When I look at them,
I remember my dance classes at the Scout Hall, about a mile from my home. I
still feel that old yearning to be a dancer—a yearning that has been actualized
by my daughter, and will be by my grand daughter.
There’s
another small box containing a brooch that my mother inherited from her aged
aunts in England. This unusual brooch is like a small picture with a portrait
of a beautiful woman. The frame of the portrait is pure gold. My Mum told me
she was a famous middle-Eastern woman who played a role in winning a war by
deceiving the invading king. Her beauty was her tool, and many heads rolled
because of her. There is a bit of the story written on the back of the brooch,
but not enough to make sense. One day I will take it to a museum for
identification. Maybe Antiques Road Show will come to town, and I will find it
is worth a mint.
I also have
precious sewing projects done for me by my daughter on occasions when I have
needed to be away from home. One is a needle case. Another is an embroidered
tea cloth. I know she missed me terribly and felt deserted. I can feel the
sorrow, grief, and love in those gifts.
My son’s first gifts to me are also in my box – a minute pair of knitting needles with
equally minute red wool. There are
three funny faces with moving eyes that are fridge magnets. I can feel the love
of a son in these tributes.
I have a
stack of love cards from my beloved husband. We courted by long distance mail from
Lesotho to Canada, long letters that took weeks to reach each other. I treasure
the ongoing cards that I receive from him. Emails are definitely not the same
as written notes —the ethereal made concrete and permanent.