Outside the Box

Sometimes my box was a bakery. All sorts of cookies, cupcakes, and pies were available. At other times, it was an office, where I’d set up a small “desk” inside with a typewriter and paper—and of course, a phone (it was pink), which I’d answer repeatedly throughout the day, taking “messages” when necessary. Sometimes it was a kitchen—complete with shelves of baking ingredients and canned foods. My box could also be a reading nook—a study, if you will, with pillows to rest against; a nursery, complete with beds and chests of baby clothes; a miniature playhouse for small children who would sometimes visit, complete with windows of course. Or a festively decorated puppet theatre.

There was no end to the imaginings one could explore with a gigantic cardboard appliance box. My parents and I (an only child) moved from a run-down apartment building in Portland, Oregon to a slightly more desirable house in Florence, on the Oregon coast. It just so happened that our landlord was a manager at the Sears catalog store, just a couple blocks away. So we could, from time to time, secure the coveted cardboard “dream” box that I would become simply ecstatic about.

As a solitary child, I developed a strong sense of imagination through play, even taking on multiple roles if more characters were needed for my envisioned “script.” With my box as a backdrop—a starting block, I could be anyone. And the box could be anything.  A car, a spaceship, a library. Even a doctor’s office. I could modify it as needed and add atmosphere and accessories as desired. I never let my box box me in.

My parents may not have realized what a great gift they had given me—what parts of my brain these box sessions were causing to grow. I will always be grateful for the childhood that I had. I may not have had many popular amenities, but I had something even greater—a tool for exploring, and this was a freedom that took me, delightfully, outside the box.