Life's Story In Boxes

S. J. Oliverio word count 2920

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LIFE'S STORY IN BOXES

by S.J. OLIVERIO

I recall the day she first entered my store, touting a large shopping bag filled to the top with fabrics, magazines, paint sample strips, and a notebook brimming with clipped article photos and notes likely compiled over some time. A short, seventy-ish lady, smartly dressed in a black pantsuit with a leopard scarf draping her neck topped by a smiling, rosy face framed in loose, white curls, strode with a determined pace to the front counter. Exuberantly, she hoisted the heavy bag up to the counter as a means of letting me know, she was there to do business.

"Hello, how can I help you?" I asked.

Without hesitation, she replied, "Well, I would like you to come to decorate my home.", her tone was very directive and quite loud. Glancing about to take notice if other patrons were in the store, she continued, "I have brought samples of fabrics I like, the color of paints that I like, and also clippings from some design magazines to show you what I want you to do." Her assertive attitude was not condescending, but very unlike the typical patrons that visited my store asking for design advice. I found it a bit humorous but refreshing in that she seemed to know exactly what she was seeking. "Basically, I want you to redo my home with a Marshall Field's look at a Walmart price!"

With that request, a smile crossed my face as I replied, "Well I haven't seen your home yet, but show me what you have brought for me to look at."

That brief conversation began a relationship between Joyce and me for the next three years.

Driving up to the classic colonial, I felt a sense of confidence. Set upon a well-trimmed expansive yard, featuring a brick exterior with four, white columns flanking the open porch, displaying two wicker chairs and a small table welcomed guests. I had agreed to consider what appeared would be a rather easy and perhaps enjoyable redesign project. Not always the case, but often my first impression of the exterior of the home gave me a quick snapshot of what lay within.

Smiling, Joyce greeted me at the door. "Welcome! Come on in," she said, again in a distinctive loud tone, which often was indicative of someone suffering from poor hearing. Stepping inside, I allowed my eyes to quickly scan the ceramic tile foyer with a wooden staircase leading upstairs. Trying not to let my face disclose my bewilderment at the bed-sheet draped across the opening to the living room, I asked "Where are you hoping to have me start?," my arm gesturing in the direction of the room hidden, behind 'Door Number 1', as in the television game show.

"No, you cannot go in there...please." she said, as she directed me to follow her upstairs. "I would like you to start up here with my bedroom."

Immediately greeted by a roomful of boxes and bins, nearly reaching the ceiling, I was taken back and yet Joyce continued entering as if nothing was unusual. Initially, I saw no furniture. "Joyce, may I ask where you sleep?" My eyes did a quick circulatory glance at what lies ahead. I began to feel a bit light headed and my heart now added a few extra beats to its natural rhythm as I assessed the magnitude of the project before me. Along with the boxes, the walls needed repainting, and the windows needed dressing. This was not going to be a simple 'redo' as I had first anticipated. Where does one even begin? I thought.

"Toward the far wall is our bed," she said. As we traversed the maze of boxes, like rodents seeking a secure nesting place, we came to the bed, which faced a balcony, overlooking the beautifully treed backyard. Atop the bed were some stacks of clothing interspersed with old magazines and yesterday's newspaper. It appeared these items could be easily moved to make access to a good night's rest.

"May I ask what is in the boxes?" I inquired, as my mind tried to envision what may be the first steps of the project at hand.

"It's my stuff." she answered, with a protective defensiveness to her voice. "I will be going through these boxes before you start. But, first I want you to tell me what would you do in here to make this an elegant bedroom? Oh, and by the way, I love black and gold."

I didn't know quite how to answer her. It was hard to visualize this room being elegant, as my mind's eye could not eliminate the boxes and articles that encompassed the room. "I will have to give it some thought," I replied.

With my camera, tape measure, and notebook in hand, I began to size the room as well as the furniture pieces now holding boxes, that would stay. Stepping to my right, a nearly 'gutted' room was the master bath. Someone had started to remove the tile flooring and a topless toilet tank sat next to an undressed window with exposed wooden boards framing it in place. I began to feel an overall sadness. As I viewed the disarray and battered bathroom, thoughts of storm-ravished homes I had seen on the news began to enter my head and pain pricked my heart, as I recalled pictures of people coming back to what once was a comfortable home. How were they able to cope with the devastation? How had this home fallen into such a state?

Pressing the issue further, I asked, "If I were to come next week, Joyce, what would I be expected to do with the boxes of things, or are they items you wish me to use in your bedroom?"

"Oh, I will have them all cleared out of here by then and there may be some things that you could use, but I highly doubt it." The mystery as to what the boxes contained remained, and she was not willing to disclose it to me. Not at this time.

Making some quick notes and measurements in my notebook, I then began to wander toward the remaining three bedrooms and adjacent bath that completed the upstairs space. Just a step behind me Joyce warned, "Oh, don't go into the room at the end. That is my 'catch-all' room for now. I hope to make it a craft room later on." As boxes lined the opening floor space of the other two bedrooms, almost as fortresses protecting the entrance to their contents, I felt assured redecorating them would be no easier than the master. And, I hadn't even seen the main floor yet!

Making our way downstairs, we were greeted at the bottom by Joyce's husband Arte, a short, stout fella that would double as W.C. Field's twin. "Why the heck did you take so long up there Joyce, when you know I need my lunch?" he grumbled, dismissing my presence. This initial introduction proved over time to be a Polaroid shot of the character within. While in their home, I learned to stay out of his line of vision.

Joyce quickly opened the front door, signaling the end of our meeting and tour. Her eyes, once bright with anticipation now flickered as from a candle just before the wick meets the wax below, extinguishing its light. "When can you start?" she asked, her hand holding the door ajar as I stepped off the porch.

Knowing we had not discussed my fees, purchases, or a time element, I responded with "I will first send you a detailed estimate in an email and we can go from there...okay?"

That evening I received an email from Joyce. "I am not concerned with the price or a detailed estimate. My son has warned that if I don't have you do the job, he is bringing a dumpster over and disposing of everything in two weeks!"

Comprehending there lay complex issues beneath my initial walkthrough, I replied, "I will be there Monday morning at 10 am. See you then."

Anxious to get a visual of the bedroom, minus the boxes and bins I quickly made my way upstairs. Joyce and Arte were enjoying breakfast and I encouraged her to finish while I do my assessment. Entering the room, I had to gasp in disbelief. The light tan carpeting anchored an oak queen bed, a double dresser, two nightstands, and a chest of drawers...nothing else. It was now an empty canvas awaiting my strokes of inspiration and color. Gazing into the bathroom, nothing had been added or deleted. I would tie in the color and decor with the master suite. My excitement began to build as I quickly visualized the layout of the furniture, the coordinating color of the walls, bedding, window treatments, and decor along with the adjoining bath. I would work with Joyce's love of gold and black while somewhere tieing in the use of leopard fabric which was a popular choice with decorators. And, she had worn a leopard scarf when we first met.

Awaiting Joyce's coming upstairs I looked about wondering where she had been able to dispose of so many items in such a short time. She was not a young woman and this had to be an enormous undertaking...but thankfully, it was done.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked standing in the doorway. A smile spanned from ear to ear across her face as I replied,

"You've done an awesome job! I don't know how you were able to make such quick removal of everything, but I am ready to begin. I will have my carpenter take care of the bathroom and the painter begins in here with the ceiling and walls. Here are the wall colors I am looking to use," as I placed the paint strip up against the wall that opened to the balcony. In the bright daylight, it glowed a soft, golden hue that warmed the light tan, plush carpeting. "In the bathroom, I intend to go lighter and replace the flooring with a warm cream and tan ceramic tile with perhaps some striation of black. We will leave the black countertop, but replace the silver fixtures with antique brass. Then we can complete the look with towel holders, and window treatments complimenting those in the bedroom." I could feel my excitement bubbling over as I tried to convey to Joyce the visualization I had in my head. As an artist, I could not wait to dip my brush into color and see my vision come to fruition.

"It sounds wonderful! she said. And, I know it's going to look great." Whether she had comprehended the visualization I wasn't sure, but she was now filled with exciting anticipation.

Following the painting of the rooms, tiling of the bathroom floor, and repairing the toilet, the fun part of my job began. I would now select possible bedding choices, window treatments, bathroom fixtures, and towels as well as wall decor. Running the list by Joyce, I gave her the option of shopping for the needed items or she could and then I would pass my approval, before putting the items to use. "No, I would rather you purchase what you feel would work best, and then let me decide if I can live with it," she said.

"Sounds good to me." I said. "Let's start with a smaller part of the project, being the bathroom towels and rug. That will be a good jumping off point, don't you think? I am looking to find a pattern with both the gold and black to add some drama!"

"Yes," she replied, "but I have plenty of towels and we won't have to purchase any new."

Quickly, my mind set off an alarm. We are going to go with new for all items except the towels, I pondered. Joyce had already made her way into the hallway separating the bedrooms and stood smiling before a wall-length set of louvered closet doors. Upon opening them, gently folded stacked towels and washcloths spanning the color spectrum lined the shelves. I stood transfixed in amazement, as aside from displays in a store, I had never encountered this array in a customer's home. However, a closer look allowed me to observe these were not new towels, but rather a collection that spanned some time. My eyes searched for gold or black, of which there were none.

"I don't see any gold tone or black, Joyce," I stated as I looked over at her still holding the handle of the closet door with pride.

"No. But surely there is something here we could use," she said, almost defying my statement.

"I understand you are wanting to stay within a budget, Joyce, but you asked me to create a Marshall Field's look to your home." I gently reminded her.

As if she hadn't heard a word I said, she grabbed a stack of light beige towels and headed to the bathroom. Following as an obedient servant, I felt frustration begin to enter my thoughts. If this was how the whole project was going to go, I was in for a challenging time. I was used to considering a customer's wishes and then earning their trust that I had a better solution. After all, that is why they hired me.

Picking up one of the hand towels and placing it next to another on the black vanity top, there was a definite difference in the shade as well as the towel texture. Then I opened a washcloth and was stunned to see that the fibers had become so thin, one could look through it as a sheer curtain. One by one, with each examination my conclusion was the same. "Joyce, How long have you had these? I asked. "These need to either be placed in a rag bag or the garbage!" I exclaimed, turning around for her reply. She was not there. I had been talking to myself in an empty room.

Returning to the hallway, I noted the closet had been closed. Heading toward the other bedrooms I began calling out her name, with no reply. Where had she gone? And why in the middle of our discussion?

Her face was wet with tears as I found her sitting at the desk in her downstairs office. I wasn't sure if I should approach her, but I wasn't aware of what the tears were about either.

"Joyce, may I talk to you?" I asked.

Nodding her head, she motioned with her hand for me to come in.

"Have I said something hurtful, to cause you to cry?" I asked.

"No, No," she answered. "It's just...It's just that...it's just that I feel the towels still have more wear to them and you are suggesting I throw them out. "Her voice was almost childlike and insecure. She had not lifted her head, avoiding eye contact with me.

"How long have you had them?", I asked. My mind recalling the many sets in the closet.

"Probably most of our married life of about forty to fifty years," she replied, with a sense of pride in having hung onto them that long.

Desperately trying to contain my shock, I continued. "Don't you think perhaps it is time to purchase new? Is this the condition of most all the towels in that closet,?" I asked. "We could go through the lot of them and organize what to save and what to dispose of, leaving you much more storage space as well." Thinking of the remaining boxes in the other rooms, extra storage would be a bonus.

"No!" her answer was quick and emphatic as she lifted her head. "I can't have you touch them, and I don't feel I should throw them out. I'm sorry." Her eyes dropped to her desk again, not wanting to see my reaction. I was stunned but also confused as to how to deal with the situation.

"I'm sorry, Joyce but I do not understand your attachment to these items? They have served their purpose in their time (and beyond I thought). Perhaps you need some time to think about it and I will come back another day, okay?"

Her voice had now become soft and nearly inaudible as she remained seated. "Okay."

Gathering my things upstairs, I casually reopened the closet to look at the assortment more closely. I was correct in that these items had lost their purpose some time ago. But, obviously not to Joyce.

I began to ponder if this is what it would be like to select the bedding, drapery, or other items I would come across in this redesign. Was I up to such a challenge? Are these the type of items that were contained in the boxes that I had not been privy to sort through? I had done some reading on hoarders, and is this what Joyce suffered from? It was a complex issue. However, I had never worked with one. The email Joyce had sent of her son threatening to bring a dumpster and dispose of everything, began to shed new light on the project.

Before my departure for the day, I used the adjacent bathroom. This bath, with a separate powder room, was also supposed to be included in the redesign. As I opened the closet across from the vanity expecting to find more towels, I was surprised. There on the three lower shelves were boxes marked "Master". The items from the bedroom hadn't traveled far.

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