Breaking habits is never easy, especially the bad ones. This time of year, one of my habits gets a favourable review. If you need a box, I probably have one just the right size. I love boxes, especially small ones with snug fitting lids and smooth surfaces. Maybe I’m part feline. I saw a photo of a big cardboard box in the savannas of Africa and comfortably lying inside was a happy lion. I can’t be sure of her emotional state, but she looked happy. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent the facts. I have considerable struggle with turning over a box to the recycling bin. I have reduced my collection, but I am still a long way from tossing boxes in the bin with cavalier flair and not ready to retrace my steps to retrieve said box in reconsideration. I’m not on the hoarders’ list, not yet. The boxes that can be broken down are stacked neatly in my cupboard so if someone turned up to do a random inspection as to my hoarding tendencies, I think they’d just put me on the suspicious list. The boxes ready to be recycled are broken down and stacked in the porch, poised should I need backing for granddaughter craft activities that involve paint, markers or glue. I’m all for reducing the packaging that comes with the various “I can’t live without” products we purchase, but a posh box makes me swoon.
The first cardboard boxes were produced in 1817 in England by M Treverton & Son. In 1856, Edward Healey and Edward Allen patented corrugated paper, not for boxes but to line tall hats, of all things. Whoever thought the tall hat was a good idea, an idea that saw millions and millions of beaver pelts cross the ocean to England in the name of high fashion. At the height of the fur trade, 200,000 beavers were killed each year in what is now Canada for those ridiculous hats. But again, I digress. The pre-cut cardboard box was an accident of discovery when paper bags were cut while being creased, which goes to show what we are quick to deem as failure often leads to something good. Kellogg’s was the first to print on the outside of their boxes, boxes that became more than just for convenience of shipping and storage. Cereal boxes make excellent backing to protect surfaces from those granddaughter things I mentioned earlier. Just saying.
I’ve tried over the years to curb my willingness to save boxes. Cardboard is easily recycled multiple times, but initially, is a “resource intensive” product which adds to deforestation concerns. So, recycling them, reusing them, sharing them are all good strategies rather than filling closets with them.
A box is the greatest example of a possibility, a bit like a blank page with a freshly sharpened pencil with an attached eraser sitting next to it. My grandsons love to build forts and planes and magic spaces with boxes, convincing me they will all be architects or engineers, though at least one of them sees himself as a paleontologist, an ambition which will likely fade all on its own.
I’ve never willingly parted with a shoebox. I must confess, my first early passion for a box was not a cardboard one but rather the small wooden boxes that mandarin oranges came tucked into at Christmas time. I adored those boxes. They held all my finest treasures, and my Christmas surprises were stored safely in an orange box tucked under my bed until at least the end of January. Undoubtedly, some adult in my house pilfered my beloved box and disposed of it, but I’m not mentioning any names (Mom).
One of my most treasured boxes is a lovely pink glove box from Betty’s. Inside that precious box, I tucked my track and field ribbons from a few centuries ago and that box has a place of honour in the bigger box labeled “Wendi’s Treasures”. I’m not sure which means more to me, the Betty’s box or the ribbons. I’m going with the box.
If you doubt the value of a cardboard box, think back to the reaction of young children to gifts on Christmas morning. Do these wise children whose joy is innocently unencumbered prefer to play with the toy or the box it came in? I rest my case. Merry Christmas, everyone!
wendistewart@live.ca
