You know, I don’t usually like to talk about this.
Because, well, boxes are private matters.
But.
Y’all know full well that I don’t shy away from discussing personal matters.
That I’m a little crass.
Thankfully, this post has nothing the least bit crass in it.
Wait.
You thought I was going to talk about something other than a square-shaped container with four wooden sides?
You’re disgusting.
This isn’t high school.
Go wash your mind out with soap.
***
I love boxes.
They’re so functional.
And so often overlooked.
Because, well, they’re boxes.
Still.
We loved them as kids.
And you can glean a lot of historical information from boxes. Get a glimpse of what life was like back then. Which is probably why I love these ridiculously utilitarian things. Because, unlike so many other things marketed for mass consumption, these objects and their labels were rarely censored, their written content unblemished by those pesky social filters.
After all, they were just for carting things from here to there, storing them until use.
And while I don’t ever want a box–or anything–with racist imagery, such things are so telling of mainstream ideologies, and are much more subversively disturbing.
***
My fascination with boxes started early.
Whether it was used as a bank for a roadside lemonade stand or baked goods table, one simple little box proved its functionality time and time again.
And then it followed me to college. And grad school. And still has its place today.
It wasn’t until after graduate school that I really started collecting boxes.
(Mostly because I actually had time for a life. And antiquing.)
At first, I just collected them because each was cool in its own right.
But then, my parents moved from the childhood homestead, and I was determined to have everything that was mine under one roof–my roof. Which meant I needed more places to store things.
Store all the things!
(Sorry, I usually despise memes. But that Clean All The Things one cracks me up. As does the one with a puppy “booping” a displeased cat. But I digress.)
So, gradually, I started circulating these boxes back into use.
And when Andy moved in, they became even more relevant. Because these two gays have a lot of shoes.
Because one fun thing about melding places is realizing how much hobby overlap you have with your partner.
Like, say, movies. (Although Andy’s DVD collection dwarfed mine.)
Finding a storage solution for a fraction of those DVDs that didn’t quite fit in the cabinets with the rest was another story entirely.
That is, until I realized I could make my soap box multi-functional, too.
So household melding became an exercise in maximizing each piece’s functionality. Including those containers I’d purchased solely for their “coolness” factor.
Because, really, we all have plenty of little things that make life a little easier on a daily basis, but just aren’t pretty.
So, why not house them in something that’s a bit easier on the eyes?
And if storage containers can double as plant stands, double plus bonus.
So, there you have it.
Boxes are fun!
They can be stylish.
They withstand more than flimsy new ones.
And they tell a story.
And, of all the reasons, that’s why I like them: They’re story-tellers.
Which is something so lacking in today’s mass-produced, disposable, now-now-now world.
Because these bits of history remind me that, regardless of how seemingly insignificant something can appear, it too has its own history.
It knows some secrets about time.
How to handle the weight and blows it brings.
And, above all else, how to weather it gracefully.
