Midwest Memo

At the office supply stores I shop I regularly purchase cardboard storage boxes that I assemble at home. The boxes are inexpensive yet very sturdy when put together. They measure about a foot tall and a foot wide, but are longer in depth, maybe 15 inches or so.

I use these boxes to store writing projects, work projects and accumulated research, news clippings and magazine articles on subjects I find interesting. These boxes are stacked in my garage, in a closet under the stairs, on top of my filing cabinets. There are two really annoying ones stuck very inconveniently under the kneehole of my desk. Only recently, several of these boxes, seven actually, have made their way into the dining room.

Someday there may be cause for concern here, not just yet though.

Most of my boxes are accurately labeled with the project name written in magic marker on the outside. From where I sit and type these words I can see six of them. Of those six there are five with labels and one mystery box with nothing written on it. None of the labeling looks like the same person's hand was at work. One label is in all capital letters. Another is all lower case. Another is written in a shaky cursive. A veritable rainbow of magic markers has been used in the labeling. I see bright purple and black and faded brown.

The boxes themselves are not exactly alike, either. I've got the Staples #03325 boxes sitting with the Office Depot #63325s. Those two versions are both white cardboard with black lettering. Just to spice it up I've added in a dash of red here and there with the Office Depot "Value" series. I suspect my collection of boxes represents whatever has been on sale when I was in the market for a little more storage.

Just because a box has a label doesn't mean a guarantee of what's inside. One box that's both faded and dented and showing a lot of age sports the original label of "sweaters needing repair." That labeling is crossed out, however, replaced with "clocks to be fixed." Inside the box is a disorganized bunch of paper that I can't readily identify. To the untrained eye, it appears at first glance that I'm tough on sweaters and clocks and can't get enough reading material.

I like to think of my boxes as a thoughtful organizational system, my own little way of imposing order on what otherwise might be clutter and chaos. How very charitable of me towards myself.

The reality is much less laudable.

As the boxes mount and encircle even more, the armature shrink in me sees projects unfinished and my inability to say done, over, finished, goodbye.

In some ways, my storage boxes show how often the past gets in the way of the present.

My "organization" is really an accumulation in disguise. Somewhere along the way I've found a way to navigate around business that's finished and should be tossed or unfinished and should be finalized.

Box it, label it and then don't deal with it. That's a lot of what's going on here.

And my system has plenty of flaws. I've had several occasions to seek out some document from a box stored in the garage. These documents have already been reviewed by the occasional mouse, ladybug, wasp, and a variety of unidentifiable insect life. It can be a frightening sight.

Meanwhile I can hold to the thought of the holy grail of storage boxes. The one representing finished projects and letting go.

The one labeled "boxes to be burned." Either that, or the Office Max #03326 insect proof, mouse resistant, and guilt free.