Box of Wonders

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.