Transported Through a Box of Memories

Achoo! Marilyn sneezed as a cloud of dust rose up as she moved the top box in the stack down to the floor. Maybe she should be wearing a mask for this.

As with the dozens of other boxes she had gone through this week, there was no label or writing on the outside to give a clue as to what was inside. Grandma and Grandpa had apparently saved everything during their 60-year marriage, although Marilyn was pretty sure it was Grandma who had put everything into these boxes.

Marilyn had even found a stack of thank-you notes she and her brother, Mark, had written thanking them for their Christmas presents when they were little.

Thankfully, this box had been closed by just overlapping the top box flaps. Marilyn had found that on the boxes that had been taped shut, the tape disintegrated into a sticky, dusty mess. So she knew that this box was much older than the rest. She had been here at her grandparents’ house with several of her cousins for the last couple of weeks, trying to sort through everything before the house was sold. They had managed to bring everything down from the basement, and what wasn’t immediately tossed into the dumpster in the driveway had to be gone through.

Mark lived across the country, so he wasn’t able to help out this week. He was really hoping that Marilyn might discover some valuable old baseball cards or comic books hidden away in the many boxes, but so far she hadn’t found anything with more than sentimental value.

Today, Marilyn found herself alone with the stacks of boxes, sitting on the floor of one of the small upstairs bedrooms. Her cousins all had other things to do today, but she didn’t mind being at the house by herself. This old house was filled with so many happy memories from her childhood. She could still remember the smell of freshly baked bread and Grandma’s special baked beans, both cooked on the old wood stove in the kitchen. And platters of baked local cod laid out on the table when they all sat down for Friday dinner together. Summer days spent chasing each other around the yard or down at the beach at the end of the street, catching crabs off the dock using the periwinkles they smashed on the rocks as bait.

The house was considered a historic building, having been built in 1845. However, it had seen better days and would probably be completely gutted by whoever bought it. It was valuable mostly for its location, at the top of a hill leading down to the beach facing Long Island Sound. None of the cousins could afford the price at its projected market value, especially with the renovations that would be necessary to bring it up to modern standards. With Grandma and Grandpa now gone, it was time to let it go.

Marilyn sneezed again as she unfolded the box flaps and peeked inside the box. She pulled out a bundle of letters tied together with string. The postmarks were too faded to read the mailing date. She untied the bundle and carefully pulled out the letter from the top envelope. The envelope was addressed to her grandmother, Mrs. Thomas Bailey. The letter was dated September 7, 1945. It started “Dear Minnie,” and was signed “Love, Angie.” Aunt Angie was Grandma’s younger sister, and they were extremely close. Marilyn put the letter back in the envelope and put it back on top of the stack of letters. She set them aside and planned to read them later.

Next, she pulled out a metal cookie container. It was a little hard to open, but she eventually managed to pry off the lid. Inside, she found a bunch of black and white photographs. The top one was a family picture of a bunch of people that Marilyn didn’t recognize, but several young children were sitting in the front of the group. She flipped it over and saw that on the back someone had written “June 1946, Bailey family picnic.”

Could the children in the photo be her father and his siblings and cousins? Perhaps, she would have to study it more closely. She flipped quickly through the rest of the stack of photos. They were all dated, with dates ranging from 1945 to 1950. Where there were just two or three people in the picture, there were names scribbled on the back. Her grandmother’s handwriting was notoriously hard to read (something her father had inherited), so she would have to read these more closely to identify who was in the pictures. She set the photos aside, next to the stack of letters.

Covering the bottom of the box were a bunch of papers that appeared to be children’s letters and drawings. There was a stick figure rendering of Grandma, Grandpa, and their four children, two girls and two boys. One drawing was just a bunch of circles and squiggly lines in all different crayon colors. Marilyn flipped it over and saw that someone had written “Tommy” on the back. This one was drawn by her father. Marilyn smiled at the “artwork” typical of a preschooler. Her grandfather was actually a pretty talented amateur artist; Marilyn had several of his pencil drawings and wood carvings in her house. “I guess Dad didn’t inherit any of that artistic talent,” she chuckled aloud.

She would have to show these to her cousins, although because there was so much stuff in these boxes, most likely they would be tossed. However, it was fun to see these things that provided a glimpse into the past. It was hard for Marilyn to imagine what life was like for her grandparents in the years after the war, raising four young children. Her grandfather had passed away 10 years ago, and Grandma had spent the last year of her life in a nursing home before passing away a month ago.

During that final year of Grandma’s life, Marilyn visited as often as she could. While her memory of more recent events had faded, her recollection of things that happened decades ago remained sharp. Marilyn started recording her conversations with her grandmother as she asked her about her life with Grandpa and raising their children.

She still remembered the last time she visited Grandma in the nursing home. Marilyn got her to talk about the post-war years with their four children, recording everything. Times were tough for the family of six, but Grandma was a strict disciplinarian and kept the children and the household running smoothly.

At the end of her visit, she could tell Grandma was fading. She said something strange as she drifted off to sleep. “You got to meet them. They were good children.” Marilyn remembered feeling very confused. What was she talking about? Of course she had met her aunts and uncle. Her father had always told her that she bore a strong resemblance to his Aunt Olive, Grandma’s youngest sister, in her younger days. Maybe she was confusing me with Aunt Olive?

Remembering that final visit with Grandma brought a smile to her face. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the bedroom wall where she was sitting on the floor. The room was warm as the afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Marilyn thought back to those final visits with Grandma and the stories she had told. In her mind, she pictured her grandmother as a young woman and her dad, aunts, and uncle as young children. As she drifted off to sleep, she imagined them playing in the very room where she was sitting. She could even hear the sounds of children’s voices surrounding her.

She was awakened with a start by a little boy poking her arm. She was still sitting on the floor of the bedroom, but everything looked different. The boxes from the attic were gone, and there were two small twin beds in the room as well as a child’s desk. The room was immaculately clean, with the exception of the drawing papers and crayons lying in the middle of the floor.

Marilyn stared at the little boy. He was about four or five years old, with short black hair and green eyes. It couldn’t be. Was this her father? He was poking her arm, trying to get her to look at his drawing. It was a family “portrait,” with stick figure renderings of a mother, father, and four children, two girls and two boys.

In a state of shock, Marilyn asked him, “Who are they?” The little boy sat down next her and pointed to each of the stick figures in turn. “Mama, Papa, Laura, Ray Ray, Katy, and me.”

“Oh my god,” Marilyn thought to herself. “How is it that I am sitting here next to my father as a little boy?”

“What a nice drawing!” she told the boy. He looked up at her and smiled. Marilyn thought back to the handful of pictures she had seen of her dad as a boy. He was even cuter in the flesh, reminding her of Beaver Cleaver in Leave It to Beaver. She put her arm around him and gave him a hug. “I love it, Tommy. Your mama will love it, too.” Her voice broke a little as she said the words. Marilyn’s father had died twenty years ago, and she still missed him terribly.

As she fought back tears, a little girl came running into the room. She stopped short and stared at Marilyn. “Aunt Olive?”

Marilyn hesitated and nodded. This must be her Aunt Karen, as she appeared to be just a couple of years older than her father. Tommy jumped up to show her his drawing. “Look, Katy!”

She remembered a story from her Aunt Karen about her nickname. “Katydid?” Marilyn teased her.

“Katy did not,” she replied, sticking out her chin stubbornly. Deciding she could forgive her for teasing, she stepped closer. “How is your hair so curly today?” she asked, touching Marilyn’s hair. “I wish my hair was curly. Tommy used to have curly hair.”

She remembered that picture. It was a family picture of her grandparents and their children. Dad was just one or two years old and had a head full of blond ringlet curls. Apparently, the blond curls had recently fallen out and been replaced by the straight black hair that she recognized.

“Where are Ray and Laura?” she asked Katy.

“They’re back in Laura’s room. We’re playing school and Laura is the teacher,” Katy said solemnly.

Marilyn smiled at this. She was not at all surprised that Laura had taken charge. As the eldest child and a stellar student (she graduated as valedictorian of her high school class), this all made sense. She grabbed Tommy’s hand and Katy led them to the small bedrooms in the back of the house that belonged to the two girls. Ray was sitting at Laura’s desk. He must have been about nine years old, and he didn’t look very happy. Marilyn was struck by how much he and Tommy looked alike; she never saw much of a resemblance when they were adults.

She recognized Laura immediately. She must be about 11 or 12, and honestly didn’t look a lot different from the Aunt Laura that Marilyn had known her entire life. She was trying to get Ray to work on his cursive writing, but he was doodling on the pages and looking out the window.

“Hey, I think it might be time for recess!” she announced, seeing that Ray needed rescuing. Plus, Marilyn was more than a little worried that her grandmother might come upstairs to check on the children and find a strange woman in her house. She figured that if they were in the yard, they wouldn’t draw too much attention; hopefully, if she looked out the window, she would think she was Aunt Olive. “Let’s go outside!”

Ray was the first one to jump up. Tommy was close behind, followed by the girls at a more sedate pace. Marilyn was terrified that they would bump into her grandmother on their way outside, but she was probably in the kitchen preparing dinner.

Ray and Tommy ran out the front door, then Marilyn left after Katy and Laura, who were holding hands. They were so cute.

The boys had their baseball gloves and started playing catch. Meanwhile, Marilyn pushed the girls on the swings that were set up under the big tree in the yard.

After a little while, she saw her grandmother come out the kitchen door into the back yard. She saw her and that the four children were behaving, so this seemed to satisfy her. The yard was big enough that they were still pretty far away, so she just waved. Laura ran over to check in, always the responsible eldest child.

She came running back and announced that everyone was supposed to get washed up and help get the table set for dinner. Dad would be home soon. Looking at Marilyn she said, “you’re invited to stay for dinner, Aunt Olive.”

Now how would she handle that? Marilyn rounded everyone up and they headed back into the house and upstairs. The house smelled of freshly baked bread, making her mouth water. She sent the boys into the bathroom first to get washed up, while she went back to the boys’ bedroom and started cleaning up the papers and crayons from the floor.

Tommy came back into the room, his hands and face freshly washed and his hair combed into place. Marilyn squatted down in front of him and said, “I had so much fun spending time with you today, Tommy!”

“Me, too!” he replied and gave her a big hug. Marilyn wanted to stay in that moment forever, but then Ray came bursting into the room, similarly freshly scrubbed. Tommy released her and she gave Ray a quick hug.

“Now you two go downstairs and help your mama with dinner. I have to go but tell her I’ll stop by to see her soon.” They both left the room and Marilyn heard them clomping down the stairs.

She sat back down on the floor where this all had begun, stunned and exhausted. She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “Wow, that was amazing.”

Marilyn jolted awake. The room was back the way she remembered, filled with dust and stacks of boxes. “What a dream,” she mused.

Next to her sat the stack of children’s drawings and letters. Marilyn started leafing through them, then paused. She was holding a cursive worksheet covered with doodles, like the one that Ray had been writing on. She shook her head. She must have seen this earlier, and her subconscious had incorporated it into her dream.

But then she saw it. It was a drawing of a little boy holding hands with a woman. A woman with dark curly hair, like hers. The paper was yellowed with age. Marilyn flipped it over. In her grandmother’s scrawl was written “Tommy.”