I took my own bags to the grocery store today.  I have a ginormous IKEA bag made out of the blue tarp material. 

When I was in Maine, I was impressed that the majority of shoppers brought their own bags. “I could do this,” I thought. I don’t like waste anymore than the next person, and those flimsy plastic bags often don’t even make it home unbroken.

The key, I’ve learned, is keeping the bags in the car. 

I actually felt shy about giving the checker my bag; I needed to explain that this was something new for me.  “Cool!” was her response.  Perhaps the next time I can just smile and hand the checker my bag. 

I stumbled onto this quote last week from a man for whom I have little admiration.  I’m not making a specific application of the quote, but I couldn’t resist posting it.

I love to play with matches.

I love to:
    1.    light one match (preferably wooden “light anywhere”), and with that flame light a second match;    
    2.    blow the first one out (watch the smoke curlicue), light it with the second’s flame;
    3.   blow the second one out (fascinated by the smoke curlicue), light it with the first’s flame;
    4.   repeat 2. and 3. until the only place left to hold the match is the previously burned part.

The whole point about creating a lot a curlicue smoke is to cover, ahem, unpleasant odors. 

One day, years ago, our middle son casually announced at the dinner table that he discovered that Lysol is flammable.  On a visit to my sister’s house he was playing with matches, experimenting by extinguishing a match with Lysol.  To his surprise and delight, the flame flared.  He dropped the match in the toilet, filed the new fact about flammability in his head, and forgot it for a few months until it surfaced while we ate dinner.  My sister’s house never burned down. The mercy of the Lord never ceases…

After that revelation, we replaced all the matches in our bathrooms with air freshener.

Now that the same pyromaniac son has been gone from our home for five years, and we are looking for economy in every corner, the matches have re-appeared.  And I have re-discovered the simple (no longer) secret joy of playing with matches.   

Last weekend we had a last hurrah with our dear friends Jack and Lisa.  They moved to North Carolina last summer, but didn’t sell their house in the Northwest until recently.  They were back to pack; we went up to send them off. 

Lisa is a master of organization.  Normally, her refrigerator has charts, lists and menus on the sides which are beautiful in their order.  This trip I had to be content with reading all the notes to the movers and watching her execute her moving plan. 

The last battle to conquer was the garage.  One section had empty boxes which had been reserved for potential use, but not needed after all.  We got to work breaking them down for the recycle center. 

Now boxes are boxes, right?  Empty containers to be re-used.

Ah, my friend; so many boxes held a story in the empty spaces. 

Lisa held up a box that had my brother Danny’s return address.  She remembered what was sent in the box, a gift for the girls (obviously my sister-in-law Valeri was behind that). 

The one that delighted me was a box which had contained a case of baby formula.  The box had my name on the top right hand corner, with a notation “No Charge” on the side.  Fourteen years ago, Safeway had a drawing for a case of baby formula.  I phoned Lisa and asked which brand she preferred for her two  newly adopted daughters.  I entered the drawing and won! 

A bucket of matches from various restaurants (do they still give those away?) took us back to our college days.

Isn’t it amazing how a bit of cardboard glued together can evoke such memories? 

I used to love shoe boxes, but they’ve flimsified.

Boot boxes make great mailing containers at Christmas.

I love Amazon.com boxes.

I really like Lang note card boxes – strong and pretty for small gifts.

Paper boxes are wonderful: uniform, nice lids, great containers.

What are your favorite boxes to save?