A large wooden trunk sits in my living room. It’s 19x20x40. It’s made from reclaimed wood, old shipping crates sold off in lots of 100. The trunk is not elegant, it has been moved so often that part of one low board has cracked away and the surfaces have multiple mars and scratches on them. The whitewash finish looks tired and paint has flecked away from some of the hand painted flowers on the lid. My father built the box for me 48 years ago.
Back then, hope chests were common. All the senior girls graduating from high school would receive a postcard from the fine furniture store in town. It invited them to come in and receive a small cedar jewelry box. Of course, the intent was to encourage the girls’ family to purchase a cedar hope chest for graduation. Something they could use for linens and things they might be making or buying for when they married.
I looked forward to getting the small box with no expectation of getting a hope chest. I knew there was no money for such an extravagance.
My Dad had retired my freshman year of high school. Money was scarce, but he had time. I asked my Dad to make me a simple trunk from the extra boards. He said the wood wouldn’t have a beautiful finish. That didn’t matter, I planned to paint it and rosemal flowers on the lid. He made the box and even purchased a piece of cedar plywood to put on the bottom of the inside.
My Mother and I were often at odds, but she had encouraged the project. She had given me the books and encouraged me to learn rosemaling. She also suggested that I upholster the inside of the box. I bought some heavy curtain fabric and polyester batting. She showed me how to fasten it in with upholstery tacks. Unlike other projects, she advised me, rather than taking it over. And when it was done, all three of us admired the results.
Today, battered and bruised it keeps a place of honor in my home. And when I lift the lid, I recall the whole process of its creation.
Naked Soul Thoughts 