Packing, or Box Stomping in Virginia

When I tell you stories about packing, you should keep in mind I’m not talking about carrying a pistol. I have been discouraged from that sort of “packing” ever since I revealed my daydreams about shooting thieves and other sorts of people I decided should wake up dead right now. No, in this blog, packing refers to cardboard boxes stuffed with wrapping paper cradling household treasures that you have to haul from one place to the next. Cardboard boxes are possibly one of the most important artifacts in American society. Is there one of you who has not shoved your worldly goods into one and dragged it near or far? Never mind moving, what about Amazon, Ebay and Etsy orders? If cardboard boxes would suddenly become extinct, life as we know it would come to a grinding halt. It’s a shame they disintegrate so quickly because future archaeologists may never have a chance to see the substance upon which an empire has been transported. Thirty-eight years ago, I moved into my current abode and swore I would never haul another cardboard box anywhere again for the rest of my life. Then seventeen years ago, I woke up to discover a mountain of empty shoeboxes in front of my garage door. The hoarder who had driven off the night before thought paper shoe boxes made perfect storage containers for his collections, but when it came time to drive off with his stockpile he decided to compress the load by removing the contents and leaving empty boxes behind as parting gifts. So there I was, finally able to drive my car into my garage but unable to access it because of a pile of cardboard shoe boxes, lids, and other leavings so huge it looked as if a trash disposal truck had rented space on my driveway. What to do, what to do? You’re going to advise me to call a trash removal company to come pick it up, aren’t you? I wish I had your smarts, but alas, I was stupid. That thought never crossed my mind until thirty seconds ago. I was still in DIY mental mode. I thought I had to personally attend to the problem. As I said, I was stupid. I was also determined and I had a very large serrated knife. Every Sunday I sawed cardboard into flat pieces and shoved them into my recycling bin. Did you know that shoe boxes are harder to cut than big packing boxes? Yes, they are. They are made to be so sturdy you can store your shoes in them for generations. I developed one mighty bicep. That’s not to say I became a weightlifter. That means one muscle in my right arm got bigger from sawing tough boxes all day long until the bucket was full. Why didn’t I call up the trash disposal company and rent a second or third can for the duration? It never crossed my mind to do so. Yet again, stupid. It took at least six weeks to dispose of my inheritance from my second marriage. As result of that trauma, I no longer allow a shoe box to enter my house. I purchase shoes, take the box to the garage, extract the footwear, and deposit the leavings straight into the recycling can. I don’t cut it up. I pick it up with tweezers, hold it at a distance, and drop it in the dumpster like a dead rat’s carcass. However, if I hadn’t made myself so meshuggeneh with the cutting up thing, I might today approach empty shoe boxes with the same enthusiasm as some Konmari fans by covering them in charming calico and using them as handy sock and scarf containers. Civilization relies upon cardboard in all its forms. Packing boxes are not all hard work, sweat, and strained backs, however. We’re well acquainted with their value as surfboards on slippery grass or muddy hills. Tape a few together and you’ve got the ideal playhouse for dogs and children. I have fond memories of the upside-down box upon which I drew stovetop burner rings and pretended I was cooking inside a different garage, when I was five. Best of all, though, was box stomping in Virginia. My son, daughter-in-law, and two of the three grandchildren had just moved into a three-story home in Charlottesville. I flew out to help them settle in. My first self-appointed assignment was to unpack the kitchen. The contents of each box had been carefully wrapped in and surrounded by reams of packing paper, the heavy kind made especially as soul mates for cardboard shipping boxes. With the emptying of each box I found myself swimming in a sea of wadded paper that began to unfold like the petals of a lotus. Walking was becoming problematical. My eldest granddaughter might have been eleven at the time. I was a new acquisition, a friendly face but still a stranger to treat with caution. She was in the living room when I started hollering for her to come help me. She cautiously approached the kitchen door and hesitated, barricaded by piles of paper. “Shove your way in, darling. Don’t be afraid. Have you ever seen winemakers stomp on grapes?” She shook her head no. She hadn’t seen Lucile Ball yet. “It’s fun. They pile all the grapes into a big barrel and then climb in barefoot and stomp until the juice runs out a spigot. I want you to stomp grapes.” She continued to look at me as if I might be dangerous. I had to gently shove her toward a particularly large, emptied cardboard box and started piling armloads of wrapping paper into it. “Here. Help me. Dump all the paper you can find into this box.” She tentatively assisted my efforts. “Now climb into the box.” That’s where I almost lost her but I was savvy and had her arm in my grip. “Don’t be afraid. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.” Steadying her, I helped her climb in. “Now, stomp!” It took about 20 seconds for her to get the idea; then she started smashing down the wrapping paper grapes with gusto. Before long we had one carton filled with three inches of mashed paper and one laughing girl. I helped her climb out. “Now we have to close the lid flaps up tight and get the box to the basement. Let’s shove it to the stairs.” She and I pretended we were the little engine that could and pushed it to the stairwell. Then she looked up at me, afraid I was going to make her carry it down all the way down to the bottom. “We could carry it down, right?” I asked. She nodded yes. “But all we really need is to get it to the bottom, right?” Again with the nodding yes. “Give it a kick.” “What?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Go ahead. Give it a good kick. Watch what happens.” The first kick was a little tentative, but once she saw how the carton bounced riotously from one wall of the stairwell to another in its hysterical dive to a crash landing she raced back to the kitchen to stomp more grapes, all for the sheer joy of kicking cardboard boxes down the stairs. We cleared out the kitchen debris in no time and left a pile of boxes in the basement for daddy to deal with later. Maybe one or two years later. When it was time for me to leave Charlottesville after that visit, her Mom asked her what’s one thing you can say to describe Bubbe? My elder granddaughter said “She’s fun.” That did it for me. I left knowing my work there had paid off big time. I’m telling you, forget about the sweat, the swearing, the aching muscles, and tired brains that symbolize “Packing.” Knowledge came late in life for me but I finally learned my lesson. Cardboard boxes are integral to human happiness.