When I was a kid, my mother purchased a file box in which she intended to keep important papers. I remember it because she always made such a big deal out of it. It was made of medium-gauge metal, a sort of mottled maroon color, large enough to hold letter-size file folders upright, four inches worth of them. It had a lock and a thin metal handle on its lid. Although not fireproof, its metal-ness gave a sense of security.
Mother referred to it always as ... "The Box." When she said it, you knew those letters were capitalized. If a birth certificate was needed, or a car title, or last year's income tax return, or an insurance policy, she would say, "Look in The Box."
After she died, my father took charge of The Box. When he died, The Box came to me. I have added to its contents things like death certificates and passports and wills and every one of my report cards from Kindergarten through graduate school. I have discarded many things over the years, too -- old income tax returns and papers dealing with cars or dwellings or money matters that are no longer part of my life.
One thing that has been in The Box as long as I can remember is a small file wallet that contains my father's World War II draft notice (with the medical rejection on the back dated June 8, 1942), a copy of his birth certificate (issued March 22, 1943), and a Valentine card he sent to my mother. According to the back of the colorful card ("To a Sweetheart of a Wife, Happy Valentine's!"), it cost 25 cents. The two-cent stamp on the envelope is upside down, and it is postmarked February 11, 1944, thirteen days after they were married.
That little collection will always stay with The Box.
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