The Last Box

I’ve been doing some cleaning up around the house. Going through old boxes.  Getting rid of “stuff” and trying to get organized.

Up in the attic, in the corner, there’s been one box. Gathering dust. For 45 years.  Before Donna and I moved into our first house, I boxed up “stuff” that I’d accumulated and sealed the boxes with tape. Over the years, all the boxes had been moved around, opened and emptied at one time or another. Except one.  One box.  Sitting in the corner of the attic.

Flash back 48 years.  In 1968, I bounced around out West with my pal Tap Tap.  A year later, with my bud Ox.  Driving my blue 1964 Ford Falcon Sprint convertible.  Chrome under the hood.  Sweet.   On one foray in the middle of nowhere in Montana, we found some old bottles (one dating to 1850) and some green glass telephone pole insulators.  I shoveled them into the trunk and we went on our way with the haul.  It is that collection that ended up in that last box.  Sitting in the corner of the attic. 

Last weekend, those bottles and insulators saw the light of day for the first time in nearly half a century.  I opened the box.  Washed up the bottles and piled them in some bags to take to a local antique shop.   Maybe I can get a few bucks for them.  If so, I can retire a day or two earlier than planned. . . . .