The first time I remember seeing the box I was very little. "Dingo" was written across it in big red letters like a billboard. It housed the ugliest pair of boots I ever saw. "Isn't dingo a wild animal? Maybe that's what they're made out of." This was the big joke told at my dad's expense as he pulled, one by one, the hideous boots from the box. We all laughed at the absurdity of not only my father's terrible taste in shoes, but this brand name "Dingo."Where did he find such shoes?
He wore his shiny, ornate boots proudly, but it was the box that became the shining star of the family. I guess my mom kept it because of its size and shape. It was the perfect vessel to store the family keepsakes: Mother's Day cards, letters from my older brother when he fist moved to Alaska at eighteen years old, but mainly photos; old and new. My brother, sister and I loved the box, it was like a treasure trove. Everything inside of it held a story, and as kids we waited in anticipation for the evenings when, after dinner, it would make an appearance on my mom and dad's bed. Three small bodies would tip toe into the room, join mom, and cuddle up on the bed to search through our family memories, reliving precious, funny, and exciting moments. Mom would tell us about the black and white photos and who the people were and about the great moments they spent together long before any of us were even a thought. My favorite pictures were the ones of her and her two brothers when they were little. It was so surreal seeing my mom as a little girl. Her face was so much the same, yet the innocence and sweetness about her would fill my heart. I also loved seeing the pictures of my dad's parents living in Spain before moving to America. These photos were exotic and foreign. It was hard to believe that I had any connection to the people in them. Sometimes my dad would steal away from his baseball games on the TV and join us. He would pull out pictures from his high school days or of himself as a soldier during the Korean War. These pictures would spark stories that kept us listening for hours. My dad had a way( and still does) of commanding a room when telling a story and we were simply enthralled, holding onto every word. For us kids, there was no better way to spend a Saturday night. Five bodies crowded onto the bed encircling the Dingo box. The best kind of night time stories a kid could can get!
The Dingo box remained a part of our lives. As we grew up and continued to take photos they made their way into the box. Graduations, proms, and surprise parties. New members of the family lived in there too. My baby nephew and mine and my sister's boyfriends who shared much time with my parents had many photo-ops. We would visit the box again and again, maybe not crowded on my parent's bed any more, but at the kitchen table after Thanksgiving dinner or the living room floor when one of my brothers came home for a visit. There were certain pictures that we always had to visit, like my mom pregnant with me showing off her gigantic belly or my brother looking absolutely miserable on a particular Easter because his cool teenage hair did not turn out right. We often found ourselves up for hours laughing and talking about the memories found inside the box.
Many years later, when my mom passed away, my dad started to purge the house of everything he felt he didn't need to survive on a daily basis. He began to pass items on to us kids, my mom's clothes, jewelry, books. Somehow, I guess because I lived closest to him, only twenty minutes away, while my siblings were dispersed throughout the country, I received the brunt of it. Many of the precious items we all discussed and shared equally. However, it came to a point that every time I went to the house, I walked out with some sort of trinket or kitchen gadget... something, much that I didn't need or want. Then one day, as I was getting ready to leave, he came out of his bedroom with the Dingo box.
"No way," I told him. But he insisted. He told me that it should be with me. I should take care of it. He wasn't taking pictures any more and had nothing to fill it up with. If he wanted to see the pictures he would look at them when he came over to my house. So I brought it home. I couldn't help thinking about the kinds of pictures I would add to it. My mom wouldn't be in any of them. The box made me sad.
Before storing it away, I sat down on my bed, in my room, by myself and searched through it wishing I could go back to those Saturday nights of family stories and searching through it together, that was what made it special to me. As I continued to spend time with the box on my own, I discovered so many happy moments from my lifetime and from those lifetimes before me: colorful Christmas mornings, vacations in the Poconos with a red row boat, my parent's wedding day, our family trip to Alaska to visit Martin when my mom's cancer was in remission. I sighed heavily and felt that my time with the box has changed, the memories felt heavy. I no longer had the care free jovial feel I normally had. I felt alone. Afterwards, I placed it in my closet where it looked uncomfortable and homesick amongst my things.
As time went on, the Dingo box sat on a shelf in my closet. I never added any pictures to it. Of course I took pictures during events throughout my life: dinners with my girlfriends, trips with my husband, my dogs frolicking in the yard. But none of them felt like the right kinds of pictures for the box. These memories were different and I held them in other places. The hardest decision came when I decided to give away some of the Dingo photos. It didn't feel right for me to be the only one in the family holding them. My siblings shared in the memories too. It was hard to take the photos from their home, but it was the right thing to do. After some time, the box was no longer busting at the seams the way it always did.
One Christmas, my husband bought me a digital camera. It was one of the coolest things I ever saw. The world of taking, editing, printing, and storing pictures was about to change. No more boxes for me, now my photos would be saved on my computer. I loved being able to make folders and play around with the editing tools, but when I thought back to the Dingo box in my closet, probably a little dusty at that moment, I knew it was truly a family relic. It held my past, my family's past. Since my mom died, the life and magic of the box seemed to fade away.
Armed with my new digital camera, I needed to find a spot in the closet to store my old ones. While cleaning out my old camera bag, I came across some old undeveloped film. I tried to think about the last time I used the bag or the camera. What could possibly be on this film? I couldn't come up with anything. I dropped the film off at a local CVS to be developed and forgot about it. I received a call from the store about a week later that my film was ready to pick up.
When I got home with the film I sat down to look through the shots. There were three rolls. I was curious, but not terribly excited. Frankly, I didn't think anything was going to come out. I had no idea how long the film was there and it was probably ruined. I started with the first set and was pleasantly surprised to see some photos from the summer a few years past. As I continue flipping, something clicked. My mom was alive this summer, we took her to the beach, it was the day when the waves wiped us all out and we laughed so hard. Could there be photos? I can't remember if I took any that day. I became anxious. Do I have new pictures of my mommy after all this time? I went through the second set with a purpose, the pictures flying through my fingers, dropping to the floor. Nothing. Then the third. Finally! There she was. It was that day. One of the best days we had before she died. The whole roll is of the family, laughing at the beach. My mom looked so happy. It was a great day. I can't describe the feeling of having pictures of my mom in my hand. New pictures of her, like she was still here. Still alive. It was as if this day at the beach just happened.
I shared the pictures with everyone, making them all copies. We talked about that day at the beach and what fun we had. How my dad warned us kids not to let go of my mom's hand in the water. He was so protective of her. She wanted to go out further into the deeper water, she was fearless. She had the three of us surrounding her like a fortress. The water wasn't particularly rough that day, so we thought we would indulge her and go out at bit farther. What was the worst thing that could happen? As we ventured more and more, the fortress was penetrated and somehow, we got knocked over. It seemed to be one wicked little wave that did the trick. The whole time under water I kept thinking I hope one of them held onto Mommy. I remember coming up for air in a panic. All I could do is look around for my mom. Was she hurt? What if her back fractured again? I saw my brother and sister, they seemed to be in the same panic as I, neither of them had her. My dad, ran to the water's edge. He looked like he wanted to kill all three of us. And then there she was, coming up from the water herself, cracking up. When we reached her, she said, "Let's do that again!" Fearless.
Sharing and revisiting these memories with my family around these particular photos was priceless. I decided to copy and enlarged a few of theses beach shots to be put into frames around the house. However, the originals had a home to go to. These were the right kinds of memories for the box. I pulled the Dingo box from its shelf, dusted it off and added in this last batch of pictures. This simple act added just a little more life and magic back into the place of my family's memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment