The Box, Car and the Boy
In a dusty corner of my father’s shop, sits a pile of fishing equipment. A monument to a childhood rich with memories of the outdoors. Some of that equipment stood the test of time. Other pieces reduce to scraps of their former selves. In the tangled mess sits an unassuming hunter green box. It opens from the top and has a seal along the edges. It is a dry box. They are common pieces of equipment used when fishing.
To this day, when my father and I find ourselves in the shop he will look at that box and say,
“Do you remember the story of how we got that box?”
I will reply, yes of course I do. It never stops him from telling the tale.
This is the story of that box
We entered the children’s fishing tournament on a nearby lake in Louisiana. I was 7 or 8 at the time, so approximately 30 years ago.
Notoriously mediocre fishermen, we did as we always do. We floated around the lake, had the time of our lives, and caught practically nothing. It was a beautiful day and we crisscrossed the cypress laden lake in search of our victory catch that never came.
We caught a few, and returned in the afternoon for the finishing ceremonies.
The ceremony was set up like all fishing tournaments. A stage with a backboard covered in sponsors. Each participants ice chest opened one at a time. The contents held up for everyone to ooh and awe over.
We caught one small largemouth bass and a decent size catfish.
We did not win any awards with our showing.
There was a consolation prize. Every participant received one of two gifts. Relative to my size sat two mountains of packages. On the peak of those merchandise pyramids sat two items. A green dry box and a remote control car.
I never had a remote control car. I couldn’t get my mind off of it. Immediately I went to work in my head trying to solve the two product problem.
Is it boxes for adults, car’s for kids? If so then I will get a car for sure.
Anxiety welled up and the fear of missing out on the joys a remote control car could bring devastated me to the core.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The time came to line up to receive our prizes. Everyone lined up in a single file line. This is when it became apparent how the items were distributed.
The benevolent host started with the car and alternated each gift with each child.
Terror struck me.
What if I am the box recipient? No! I don’t want a boring box, I need that car.
I watched as one by one the children in front of me received their prizes. The newfound owners of the car giddy with excitement. They danced and screamed and immediately started ripping into the box as soon as they got off stage. The difference in the emotions caused by the box were glaring. Tears, protest, and fits each child expressing a different level of disappointment for their prize.
As I inched closer and closer to the front of the line the anxiety became palpable. By the time I was 5 away I counted and realized I was going to receive the car. Excitement overcame me and a smile from ear to ear pierced through my boyish gaze. One by one the final 4 came, each showing the same elation and disdain as their predecessors.
The one child before me would not accept his fate. He threw a fit, stomped his feet, screamed and hollered and demanded that he receive a car. I felt my prize slipping from my fingers. His father walked on stage and spoke with the person handing out the gifts. They whispered back and forth and I watched in horror as they returned the box to the stack and handed him a remote control car.
His tears now blanketing a smile covered face.
I thought to myself, they will honor the rotation and give me the car anyway.
Of course they didn’t, the benefactor grabbed the box the boy refused and handed it to me and shoved me to the side as quickly as possible.
My heart sank, my prize slipping through my fingers.
That spoiled little brat
He was over amongst the other car recipients tearing open his prize marveling in its glory.
My father tried to console me. I would have none of it. I held back my disappointment until we got to the truck ready to leave. He could see how disappointed I was. Stripped of all the joy of the day. A beautiful day, with memories that transcend the test of time, yet all I could think of was this damn box.
He decided to try and fix it. I hated that. I am never one to complain out loud. I tend to grumble and brood. Even as an 8 year old when something didn’t go my way I just absorbed it and learned to compartmentalize the pain of the disappointment. I begged him not to embarrass me but he insisted. He went back to the stage and spoke with the host.
It was too late, they didn’t have any more of either. The box was ours. I would never know the joys of my unattained remote control car.
I sulked for days. Every time I saw that box I felt the sense of loss for what could have been.
The first year was the hardest, the memory was so fresh. The second, third and fourth brought acceptance but still I looked at that box with displeasure. The next five years I found peace with the box. It was part of our fishing gear. It went with us everywhere. By the twentieth year I realized how special that box was, and the lesson it carried. Now thirty years later that dry box sits in pristine condition, not because it’s been cared for, but because it was a tool built for life. It was the most practical gift ever bestowed on me. In the moment I received it I hated it.
The children who received the car earned their immediate gratification. I am sure they found the limits of its potential. The car destined for a pile of old toys only to have its batteries leak acid into their housing. Eventually discarded as all other electronic toys of the 90’s.
And yet, my box, my now beloved box, sits as a centerpiece of a shrine to the most cherished memories of my childhood.
Now my father is older and doesn't remember all the stories he’s told me. When he asks me,
“do you remember when we received that box?”
I will say no, and let him tell me the story one more time.
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