In the Box

As I flipped the calendar over to the April page, a memory leaped to mind. Oh, now that was one of the best gifts I ever received . .  . a brown-paper-wrapped carton, addressed in my father’s handwriting, stuffed into the mailbox at the foot of our Berkeley hills driveway. It was 1971 or ’72 and I’d lived in California only a few years.

And along with the memory came the thought, It’s almost as though a wrapped package were the astrological sign for my birth month. 

 Gleefully, I tucked the package under my arm and climbed first the railroad-tie levels up the hillside, then the wooden steps up from the carport into the house. It wasn’t my birthday yet but I ripped the box open anyway. Oh, my gosh, Daddy put the whole thing together himself! The signs were everywhere: somewhat clumsy paper use, none of my mother’s neat bows nor her scurrying script. Daddy had scrawled on the enclosed card “To Sal”—he was the only person who addressed me this way—and had signed it with his characteristic large vertical “W” with three loops instead of two. 

Right away, peppermint Lifesavers rolled out. Oh, Daddy! Making sure I’ve got necessary equipment for every situation. Next I came upon an elegant little box with a precise bow and inside, a pretty silver leaf pin. That must have come from Backus and Soule. . . It’s so pretty! Then a hard, hand-sized lump, which turned out to be spray cologne in a fragrance I liked. He must have gone and talked with Isabel. . .  I wonder how she’s doing these days. . . She’d been my boss on the cosmetic counter at Livington’s Pharmacy where I’d worked one summer. Isabel Knew Everything. 

Now I was down to flat layers. Oh, yay!  Books! Typically, each unwrapping revealed something I loved right off—and some kind of challenge book. Daddy had often given me those books on some off-base subject. (Once, back in high school, it was a book on philosophy that I never got very far into.) I always felt oddly flattered by those because it seemed like he assumed I could figure this out and maybe it would be interesting; yet I wasn’t required to. I think now he may have been fascinated by them himself; I’ve bought gifts that way, too. 

But one major thing was missing: music. Of course there was no easy or compact way to put in LPs. Long playing records, in their twelve-inch-square cardboard sleeves. In person, classical LPs were the automatic gift between Daddy and me. Every birthday, every Christmas. No matter who’d given the other what, we owned them all jointly. We’d listened together throughout my junior high and high school years; one particular joy of my conservatory education had been seeing Daddy’s delight in a piece new to him. 

However, except for the Lifesavers, this time I found none of the odd things Daddy sometimes gave as gifts, boxes of paper clips or flashlight batteries. One Christmas it was some easy-release ice cube trays; another year, a big columnar pad for figures with the note, Maybe you’ll find this comes in handy. It’s a useful thing. 

Missing items or no, the little carton held plenty. I knew it had been assembled lovingly, and in turn I loved every item in it. And as it turned out, that stuffed carton was unique; only once did my father send me such a personal selection.

How I wish I could give him such a box! I have wished this for years, actually. But he died in April1979, at the age of only sixty-six. That very summer, coming up on his August birthday, before I realized what I was doing, I bought him a book. Oh, great maritime paintings, beautiful reproductions, too! Daddy would love it. 

 So I got to thinking. O.K. Suppose I could create a similar package for him, full of items he would like . . . What would I put in it all this time later?. . .  

Well, now technology would be on our side. The physical form of recorded music has shrunk! Of course I’d put in some CDs, of course the music of Brahms, our mutual favorite. And perhaps a package of the complete Beethoven Piano Concertos or Piano sonatas. 

This technology aspect isn’t just a distraction or a “Gee whiz” thing, either; Daddy and I knew we were living those developments when I was growing up. We talked about how LPs were such an advance from 78s, those heavy shiny discs that divided music into short runs punctuated by loud “thwops” as the automatic changer went through its paces. We listened to them some but a piece of any length demanded such patience. No wonder we loved and marveled at LPs—as well as their superior sound quality. 

My gift box for Daddy would have to also contain a digital camera, for I have found such delight in mine. He would be so intrigued! Oh, and a thumb drive, too. I can almost hear him say, “Golly, Sal!  That’s amazing! That you can get all those images on such a tiny thing!” 

I realize that I’m leaving out a huge presence here: the computer. Had he lived, I think my father would have caught on with computers and especially loved the ease of discovering information they’ve made possible. Via employment at GE, he took classes at Boston University and I remember him bringing home an IBM punch card and telling me “It’s the wave of the future!” At the time (I was nine or ten), this seemed pretty fantastic but I think his excitement then was genuine, and prescient. 

Via the thumb drive, I could share my best photographs. Or do I sound as though I just want to impress him? This is a loving gift, not a “Show and Tell” of your life, Sally  . . . Or is it? Daddy really would like to know what I do, what I take delight in, I feel sure. We discussed photography and way back he’d done serious dark room work himself. I think he’d be delighted to see my work.

Also, like so many parents, my father wanted to me to do better than he had. So often I heard him say things like “Use the gray matter, Sal!” and “Keep all your grades up, don’t be like I was, working only at the subjects I liked.  . .” So it’s not just my ego speaking— it would be a genuine reward for him, to also see the book I’ve written. I often thought he might have written some good ones himself; he appreciated good writing and tales, and we talked over books we’d read. I still have many books he owned and treasure ones with his notes in the margins, including an indignant “No!” where he corrected some misinformation. 

But my box for him wouldn’t be all serious. When I was a kid, every Christmas Mommy would help me buy Daddy a can of black olives as a present, something he loved from his native California; they seemed exotic to me then. I’d include some See’s candy, too, a lovely California product that he apparently ate all too much of as a boy back in 1920s Pasadena. (Pictures of him from that time reveal a very chubby kid). And I’d include one other vital food item, too: some good sharp Cheddar. Daddy used to have cheese and crackers as a pre-bedtime snack and he’d always give a tiny chunk of cheese to our beloved old cat Toby—who, believe it or not, drooled as he awaited this treat. 

These days, such a gift box may seem too adoring, an “All the Things You Are” gesture between father and daughter that perhaps sounds more appropriate for a romantic couple.  Certainly I was Daddy’s girl, an only child who looked like him; I still see him in the mirror, our broad foreheads and blue eyes and serious expression when we concentrate. 

Daddy loved watching me grow up and then knowing me as an adult. Sadly, once I married, I always lived three thousand miles away—in his home state, no less.

  These boxes, the real one and the imaginary one I’ve “packed” for him here, held both concrete things and symbols of some of the joys that held us together. A far truer “astrological” symbol for me than the prescribed Taurus, these boxes are signs of my good fortune: a father like Bill Woodworth.