Fifteen Boxes

There is a theory about people who are uprooted at an early age and continue to wander around the world in search of their roots. Nothing feels like home to them, so they move from place to place eager to happen upon that one spot that feels comfortably familiar where they can finally pause to take a breather, maybe look around for the first time in years to realize that another world exists around their internal universe.

I can attest to this being true. For the last twenty-eight years, I moved approximately thirty times. Yep, it means that some years I moved more than once. I can’t really say with certainty what was pushing me forward. There was always this burning urge in my stomach that made me feel unsettled, unhappy, and wanting more. What was that “more”? I couldn’t answer even for myself, but I knew that I wanted to be anywhere but here. Every new place seemed promising. I could allow myself a tiny glimmer of hope that this was it – my forever home. I would enthusiastically throw all my energy into getting us settled and back to normal as fast as humanly possible. I became an expert at packing and unpacking. Many who knew me joked that I could easily consult for moving companies or start one of my own with all the experience I had gained in the relocation industry over the years. Oh yeah! Don’t try to cross me on the size of the moving truck or charge me for the extra tape or packing materials. You won’t know what hit you, buddy.

I would remain in that euphoria for four, maybe five months until the nagging is back in my stomach scaring the living daylight out of me. How am I going to tell my family that I’m still unhappy? Is it awful that I want more? Am I one of those people that can never be satisfied with whatever they have? I certainly don’t want to be… How could some folks live in the same house their entire life and never feel out of place? Are they truly happy or just settling for what they have? If so, why can’t I be one of them? Why can’t I settle for something that is not “home” or “perfect” but simply just good enough? For many years I asked myself that question while lying to others about various reasons I could always master to justify our next move.

I remember I watched an interview with Portia de Rossi when she was talking about Ellen’s (her wife) love for real estate and habit of frequently moving. She joked about learning to unpack in a way that was very convenient to grab things and put them back in boxes when the time came to go again. I couldn’t help but smile because I could sooo relate to this celebrity couple. I followed the same process so the things that went together, stayed together. Yes. I became a very efficient packer and, even better, at finding new places for us to live in -one better than the others.

Not all of it was bad. For instance, it allowed our growing kids to see many corners of the world we wouldn’t have known about otherwise. It also influenced them to grow up into fairly independent human beings who are always ready for change. From a young age, they were accustomed to being flexible in life while many others, who spent all their lives in one place, had so many reservations and anxieties when things transformed around them.

Our kids were born New Yorkers so we got to know and love the great city that so many call the capital of the world. While others had to travel from all around the world to experience New York, we took it completely for granted. I mean doesn’t everyone have Broadway at their fingertips? Couldn’t every kid say that the very first zoo they ever visited was the famous one in the Bronx? Or, in the worst-case scenario, in Central Park? Their first museum wasn’t a small local heritage compound but the glorious MET and the early love for dinosaurs and fauna was satisfied by the frequent visits to the Museum of Natural Science. While others were glad to find a place to spend a few days in the summer on a lake or a riverbank, our kids sunbathed on the Coney Island and Staten Island beaches enjoying every aspect of entertainment they had to offer.

When we moved to Western Florida, we lucked out again. There was no shortage of museums, parks, beaches, excursions enhanced by the 365 days of joyful sun and mostly blue skies. Later, California opened its brownish hills like welcoming arms, adopting our family for a long ten years and sharing everything it had to offer, the good and the bad. In the end, while the smells and unparalleled beauty of California are forever associated with our kids getting into their adulthood and becoming the conscious adults they are today, it still didn’t feel like home. And then we finally arrived.

It was a pure accident but the minute we set our feet into the magical lands of the Olympic Peninsula we couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. It was a truly one-of-a-kind place that couldn’t have been found or replicated anywhere else on Earth. The uniqueness of the climate and location dictated the abundant variances of daily ever-changing surroundings. The residents of the local wild kingdom in this little paradise were equally impressive. Ranging in size and colors, the mammals and birds alike had one thing in common – absolute trust in the humans that coexisted next to them. Everywhere the eyes wandered reminded us of life-like pictures from a skillfully illustrated fairy tale. Yes, for the first time in many years, I saw a place that resembled my home and therefore, instantly felt homey to me. With that came the realization that I can finally unpack those fifteen boxes I’d been carting around for the last almost thirty years. Always waiting for the right moment, the right place to open them up so we can rediscover the treasures they held for so long.

Stuff is an interesting word. I remember when I was learning the language, I had a hard time understanding what it meant. There was a nice Italian gentleman in a small shoe store in Brooklyn who said it to me first. I walked in with a huge bag of merchandise hoping to make a sale which I desperately needed. Have you tried to sell anything when your English comes down to two-three phrases? Not easy. So, I spat into his face what I knew when he asked me:

“What kind of stuff do you have?”

“Stuff?” I asked. “What mean Stuff?”

I literally thought it was the name of something else so in my head it was spelled with a capital “S”. He spent a good fifteen minutes explaining it to me, pointing at various things in the store, and waving his arms until I finally got the concept. Stuff = anything. I said it a few times, tasting the word on my then-untrained tongue. It tasted good and I knew I would retain it. That was my process of learning – words that “tasted good” to me were easy to remember. Others - took longer.

Over the years, we, as a family, accumulated a lot of stuff. Some of it came and went as the kids got older and grew out of things but my original boxes, which I brought with me to the country, still hid my stuff. From back then. The times when I was still carrying my full birth-given name and not its American version. I remember, there were a few arguments when during yet another move someone from the family circle would get irritated and throw at me in frustration.

“For how long are you going to carry these around? If you didn’t need anything out of them by now, chances are you can throw them out! Geez, that’s fucking heavy!”

I knew they were right. I felt guilty but couldn’t part with my boxes. There must be a perfect home, a place deserving enough for me to open them. And so there it finally was. I decided to make it as special as I could, that day when I finally got a knife ready to cut the old, yellowed tape that was renewed a few times over. A few of the boxes got deformed but mostly held together. It took some time, but they were brought up into the unpacking area that was equipped and set up to handle any emergencies that could come out of those boxes (including unexpected guests such as bugs or mice, because that thought also occurred to me). A bottle of wine and a glass were sitting on the kitchen island along with a brand-new dusting cloth in case something required cleaning. Would I get sentimental? Would the content of the boxes be as good as I remembered it or did my memory hype it up for me in anticipation of what would follow? I was glad that everyone left me alone. Not that I didn’t want to share this experience with my family but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the first stroll down memory lane I will do solo.

I approached the first one with a fast-beating heart, praying it was not disappointing. Of course, my knife was not working and then I kept missing the tape lines. My hands were trembling. Unconsciously, I was holding my breath not sure if it was part of the excitement or the lack of certainty about what kind of smell would escape these cardboard walls once I let the Genie out. Did I choose the right one to be my first? At last, the tape is off, and the walls of the box fell to the sides without the supportive glue that kept them together all these years. I smiled. I recognized the smell. It’s been my favorite since childhood. That light, dusty sort of sweet aroma that can come only from the pages of very old books. Here they were! The twenty I was allowed to bring with me from the “old” home.

I lost track of time picking them one by one. Wiping the cover before opening the first few pages. The smell is stronger now and I inhale it with a happy smile. Hello, my old friends. Did you miss me as much as I missed you? I got the biggest one from the bottom. It’s dark gray, taped on the side in a few places to keep the binding from falling apart. Sorry guys, but you all know I will play a little favoritism here. This one is my beloved. Published in the mid-1800s, this book was in my family’s possession since 1902 so I’ve had it for as long as I can remember except – for the last twenty-eight years, it’s been patiently waiting for me in the box.

The book is big and heavy, so I placed it on the island with both hands before carefully skimming through the first few pages. Old-style typing, glossy pages, hand-drawn illustrations. If one was looking for an image to exemplify the word gorgeous in connection with an inanimate object, it would have been this book. Occasionally, I noticed a few black smudges around the pages. Now, it reveals another aroma coming from those darker ones before it mixes with the usually dusty sweetness. This smell has been stuck in my nose since I was five. In my head, it connects with so many things – fear, terror, loss, emptiness... FIRE. Since I was five, wherever I was, whatever I was doing, this smell always takes me down memory lane.

My phobia of fire started when our apartment burned down. I just turned five. The jury is still out if it was the portable heater or the old electrical outlet, but the end result was the same. I discovered a decent-sized bonfire rising in the middle of the room imposing immediate danger on my plushy friends, so I ran screaming to my Babushka. Fate had it that my precious books were left unharmed, they just got scorched a bit, which in my opinion, only gave them more character. We lost nearly everything and that was during the Soviet era when there wasn’t any insurance or loans/credit cards. There weren’t any bank accounts so if one had any kind of savings, they typically would be hidden in cash somewhere in the house.  

The wonderful Odesian community came together, as they always did at a time of crisis. Our apartment was still smoking but neighbors were already rushing in bringing us food, offering to watch me while the adults dealt with the logistics. We stayed with our relatives for a few months while the apartment was put back together but it took a village – everyone chipped in! By the end of the very first week, I had decent clothes along with a few new toys and the work on the apartment was on its way.  

I opened the next box and saw something tangled and bright blue that occupied most of this one and instantly knew what this is! It brings me back to the time about six months after the fire. The apartment was fixed but looked very different. I didn’t mind the changes but was grieving about one piece of my previous life in particular – the tall doll that was given to me just a few days before the fire. She was supposed to be a bridal doll, dressed in a beautiful gown with golden locks pinned around her delicately painted face. I didn’t get to name or examine her properly. She was my fifth birthday present, and I didn’t have a chance to even get her out of the box before a fire swallowed her whole. It was a strange feeling since I didn’t get to play with her and yet, my grief was real. I was dreaming about her for months, hinting heavily at my preference for the birthday gift. I spent quite a few nights lying in bed imagining what she would look like. Would she be a brunette? Red head? Her dress, would it be long or short? Would she have a veil?

I tried to show everyone that I’m a big girl. Yes, five-year-olds can accept responsibilities and lead by example after living through something this horrific. There is nothing scarier than to see all your toys and brand-new clothes that were given for your birthday melt and disappear right in front of your eyes. Yes, I might have thrown a fit at that moment (who could blame me?) but since we returned to the repaired apartment, I told everyone in a very indifferent tone that I didn’t really need that doll. It was too big, you see. Not convenient to play with or put in bed with me so everything that happens is for the best. I heard that phrase somewhere just a few weeks earlier, so I repeated it frequently impressing the heck out of my adults – it was simply not meant to be.

Then the winter holidays came. My mother came back from a big trip but to my disappointment didn’t let me rummage through her suitcases as usual, giving me some lame excuse that there were some dirty clothes, and I had no business.

I pouted all the way up to New Year’s – the day when the Soviet kids were getting presents from Santa Clause’s cousin – Grandpa Frost. On the morning of January first I woke up to see something big and blue under the New Year’s tree. Everyone was still sleeping after a long night of celebration, but I couldn’t wait. So, I dragged the large plastic bag closer, carefully opening it so I didn’t tear it up. Something soft and heavy fell out of the bag, unfolding into my lap. It took my breath away. It was beautiful and huggable, instantly filling up my heart with a million emotions. It, or I should say he, was a doll. He had a full head of beautiful knitted blue hair that fell around his large round face with wide open aquamarine eyes. He was dressed in a cute short-sleeved top and blue overalls with a few silly buttons stamped on the front. It was obvious this was a boy, and he was huge! About half the size of me at that time. So, I stood him up, surprised at how light he felt for his size. Then I understood. My new companion was filled with foamy stuffing with his head being the only piece that was made from hard plastic. I hugged him carefully and he instantly responded by throwing his soft arms around me.

“Do you think this guy can keep you safe when you sleep?” I heard my grandmother’s voice. I didn’t notice how and when she walked into the room but nodded happily while I held my doll as tight as I could. I would never allow anything to happen to him!

“This is Sasha,” I introduced him to my grandma.

And so, as I’m getting Sasha out of my box after twenty-eight years of separation, I smile lovingly looking at his tangled blue hair and joyful face. Minus a few spots he was inflicted with over the years, he and his attire are still intact. We wink at each other while I carefully carry him into the bedroom to sit on the dresser next to me. I know that even now, forty years later, Sasha will keep me safe, keeping away all the bad dreams that would dare to enter our mutual world. I look up – only thirteen more boxes to go but I suppose they will be there tomorrow…