The Memory Box

I don’t think I am alone in maintaining a collection of mementos from my childhood, but I have reached an age where I feel it is time to unburden myself of their physical presence (plus, I need to de-clutter the flat). My intention had been to hand the box—and its contents—over to my grandchildren. To them, however, it would simply be a collection of random junk, so I wrote the following to help guide them through the contents.

Whenever they receive it.

For, on second thought, I won’t be sending it to them any time soon. When going through the box I realized that, although individually, each item is little more than a curiosity, collectively they are pinpoints of light marking events that make up the story of my life. All contained in a small cedar box. I am, it transpires, not yet ready to part with it. Beside, the box doesn’t take up that much room.

The Memory Box

I have a Memory Box. Mom gave it to me when I was very young, still in single digits as I recall. It had been her jewellery box, but when she got a new one she bequeathed the old one to me. It was still relatively new, and I could smell the cedar aroma in the wood. I immediately began storing things in it, and it has, since that time, been the centrepiece of every dresser I have ever had in any residence I have ever lived in.

It had a lock and key, but the first thing I did—after I put something in it and locked it—was slip the key through the gap between the lid and the box to keep the key safe. The second thing I did was realize that, with the key in the box, I now couldn’t open it. Several minutes and a flathead screwdriver later, the box no longer had a functioning lock. But at least I could open it.

Shortly after that, I stuck a label with my name on it, because I had a label-maker. Of course I did.

My mother attended Martin Van Buren school in Kinderhook. When I attended, it housed only grades Kindergarten through 3^rd but Mom spent her entire school career there. It’s a currently an art gallery. Mom graduated in 1951 as Salutatorian of her class. This, apparently, was the pin she and her classmates received upon graduation. I had no idea it was in the box until I searched through it in preparation for his article. That’s the good thing about memory boxes: revisiting them gives you some nice surprises.

This is one of my original booties. Mom had it sent to a company that “bronzed” them. I think my sister also had one, but after that she gave up on the idea. I’ve had it for as long as I’ve had the Memory Box. The writing on it is my name and date of birth.

Strange one, this. It’s one of my baby teeth. My intention had been to collect all my baby teeth (our tooth fairy gave us money—the going rate was a dime, and later a quarter, per tooth back then—and left the tooth) but I was only able to keep a handful. This is the only one I have left. No idea what happened to the others.

This is my Lutheran Sunday School Attendance pin. After the fifth year, I started getting first-year pins again, and I have several of those, so it seems I attended for more than five years.

I started Cub Scouts when I was eight. This wasn’t the first project I undertook in the Scouts, but it was one of the earlier ones. It’s supposed to be an ash tray. (Young boys made ash trays for their dads back then instead of lecturing them on the evils of tobacco.) This sad attempt was never used for its intended purpose, so I kept it.

At some point during my scouting career—Cub Scouts through to Boys Scouts, to Junior Assistant Scout Master when I was eighteen—Mom became a Den Leader, and then a Pack Leader. She got this pin as part of those activities, though I can’t recall if it was something presented when she retired her position, or if it was just something she wore to display her rank.

I went with the Scouts—Cub or Boy, I can’t be sure—on a tour of West Point, the US Military Academy down the Hudson River from where I lived, famous for Benedict Arnold’s attempt to turn it over to the British during the Revolutionary War. While there, I bought this metal canon replica at the gift shop. That was nearly sixty years ago, and it’s still with me. I have no idea why.

When I was twelve or thirteen, I bought a ring with my name engrave on it. I wore it on my ring finger, then on my little finger as I got older, and finally, it was too small to fit me at all. So, I retired it, and awarded it a place of honor in my Memory Box.

This is not as macabre as it looks. This is the last remnant of my Visible Man model.

This is the model. I painstakingly put it together, painted it, and it sat on my shelf for years. I took great satisfaction from taking it apart and putting it back together again. (We didn’t have cable TV back then.)

This is a magnifying glass without the handle. I think it had one once, but it broke. This made the magnifying glass very handy, as it fit nicely into my pocket. I carried it all the time and used it quite a lot. (Have I mentioned that I was sort of a geek when I was young?)

I wrote about the magnifying glass—as well as other items, some of them also mentioned here—in my blog Postcards From Across the Pond.

This is a spent .306 (thirty ought six) or 30-30 shell. No idea why I have it or why I saved it.

A fundamentalist religious fervour swept through the US in the early 1970s, and on the 14^th of November 1971, I got caught up in it. Much more on that later. Soon after I joined, I made this and wore it for years.

Starting at an early age (eight, probably, when I joined Cub Scouts) I carried a pocket (or pen) knife. I had many different ones over the years, and this was merely one that I had for so long that I decided to keep it after it was made redundant. For the record, I still carry a pocketknife.

Long story. I’ll try to keep it short. When my brother was young, he got stung by a bee and developed a serious allergic reaction. As a result, Mom had a kit with an antidote and a syringe at the ready. He never needed it (it was probably a one-off; we were always getting stung back then) and instead of throwing it away, Mom gave the syringe—and the needle—to me. I found it very handy for getting glue into tight places. So handy, that when it wore out, I had a buddy—whose mom was a nurse—procure some new needles for me.

A teacher caught me and, of course, and sent me to the principle, who called my mom and shouted over the phone at her, “Do you know you son has a hypodermic needle?” to which she replied, “Yes, I gave it to him.” He responded that he was very disappointed in her as a mother, which I thought was a bit harsh, and told me he was going to turn me over to the police. He didn’t. I got a stern talking to (he, of course, assumed I was main-lining heroin and never once asked why I had it) and then he confiscated my needle and let me go.

I kept the syringe, however, and used that as best I could without the accompanying needle.

For several years, we had a miniature pool table, and whiled away many an hour playing with it. These are the last of the remaining balls. (The blue string is there to keep them from rolling away, it is not an item from my Memory Box.)

I don’t know what the fuck this is for, or why I have it.

A sandblaster tip. These were inserted into the sandblaster nozzle to keep the sand from destroying it. When the tip wore away, a new one was put in its place. Sandblasting was one of the first jobs Dad gave me. I wrote about this in Postcards, as well. Why I put something I would dearly love to forget (it was a shit job) into my Memory Box is beyond be.

The capper, in more ways than one. This is the tassel from the mortarboard hat I wore when I graduated from high school in June 1973, marking my entry into adulthood.

There are other items in my Memory Box, but they relate to things I owned or experienced as an adult (such as the hood ornament from my 1966 Ford Falcon, the key to my 1966 Chevy Nova, and a shedload of Irish Dance medals). These may, or may not, be written about at another time.