THE LUNCHBOX

        

If my dad were still living, he would be 111 years old. However he died in 1982, one month to the day that my first son was born. He unfortunately had to retire early at age 58 due to a heart condition. It was unfortunate for two particular reasons: (1) He loved his job as an electrician at SKF Industries in Philadelphia and (2) because, though he had a pension, he worried about money for the rest of his days trying to make ends meet.

       After all these years, I still have the lunchbox he carried to work every day. It’s on display in our corner cabinet in the living room where we keep some family artifacts. It’s gray metal with leather straps and with a lid that is shaped to hold a thermos. It’s rusted and worn—nothing beautiful about it, mind you, but it’s a treasure in its own right—at least to me.

       I remember playing with it when I was a kid, probably 7 or 8 years old. I’d carry it around the house pretending I had just come home from work. My parents would still be at the kitchen table and they would ask me how my day was, and I would complain that my boss, “Mr. Bleemy,” was grouchy and was yelling at everybody all day. And they would pretend to be sympathetic (with a slight grin as they looked at each other.) That was my “cute” era, I suppose.

       Anyway, I thought about that lunchbox the other day when I went over to the corner cabinet to put a CD in the stereo. As I looked up and spotted it on the shelf, I suddenly remembered its history and its meaning. I’ve shared a bit of its history, but its meaning is more than sentimental to me. It reminds me that in every life there are everyday objects that we carry or touch or use that symbolize that life is good.

       I can picture my dad sitting down somewhere in the SKF factory, opening his lunchbox, taking out a bologna and cheese sandwich, pouring coffee from his thermos into that thermos cap designed to be a handy mug, and thinking to himself that on Saturday maybe he’ll start the garden or maybe we’ll go crabbing in Tuckerton or maybe we’ll go to the beach. Or maybe he would simply be thinking about nothing in particular except that it feels good to sit down.   

       Then in just a little while, he’ll close the lid on his lunchbox, satisfied, and go back to work for a few more hours, nourished by the simple truth that those were a few treasured moments and life is good.