The Chest

         In April, 1991 the Davidson family immigrated to Canada. Not strictly true because my wife, Irene, was born and bred here in Vancouver. But our two children and I were born in the UK.  A few months after our arrival, we received a call that our belongings, which had been shipped, had arrived. Amongst these was a substantial rectangular chest which had been in the Davidson family for many years. In the peace and tranquility of the past year, one of the jobs that had always been on Irene’s mind was to paint and restore this chest.

        30 years after our arrival, this ancient piece of substantial wood was finally set on tarpaulins on our lawn in the back garden. The fine weather had arrived so Irene proceeded to paint it a rather splendid dark stain that she had picked out for the job.  Strange though this may seem, Dear Reader, I don’t always listen to my wife. Some conversations seem to skim off the top of my head rather like the proverbial water off the duck’s back. So I didn’t really take it in when Irene was excitedly wafting a paper bag in front of my eyes as I was wrestling with a particularly cryptic clue in the crossword . It was, after all, just a paper bag. I had seen one before. So what!  I was soon swallowing my ‘so what’!

       This paper bag had advertising on the front. “John Grant (Methlick) Ltd” and, ‘For Better Groceries’ and so forth, neatly and professionally presented But what struck me more than anything else was the telephone number. It merely said:-

                                  Telephone

                                      205

         Methlick is the village in Aberdeenshire where I spent the first 8 years of my life. The UK has a population of over 60 million people. At what point in the history of that country was it sufficient to put a three digit telephone number on a paper bag, I wondered?  No city code, no 10 digits, no more details needed. This was a paper bag which must have found its way into this chest at some time between the years 1952 and 1960. Those of you with a sense of history, and, dare I say it, of a certain age, will note how many world events had happened immediately before this bag came into existence and, of course, what has happened since. There have been incredible developments in our world, some outstandingly good, some notoriously bad. As we look back we still see situations in the world which have not improved, for Palestinians and Israelis, for example, the problems seem to be much the same.  But there is a list of medical, technological, knowledge based learning which we could name which have been of great benefit to the people on this planet.

       So, as I write this blog, I am planning a trip to a store where I am going to buy a cheap picture frame into which this paper bag will be lovingly placed. Part of me sees the folly and futility of this. After all it is not a framed picture of a family moment. Nor is it a work of art, some of which adorn our walls. My Bruce Springsteen “Born to Run’ poster reminds me of the three concerts that I have attended featuring ‘The Boss’. The wonderful picture of a leaping salmon, blue with a white background, with a body crowded with local native symbols, is a gift from the father of an indigenous child I taught.  Downstairs there is a stark winter landscape with an oak tree, bare of leaves as befits its winter status. Underneath it reads the caption, “A life of ease is not for any man.” A gift I gave to my father on the occasion of his retirement. I have since claimed it back.  Also there is a beautiful carving of a Robbie Burns quotation which my good friend, Grant Harder, kindly made for me. So, every picture tells a story, every picture bears a sentiment. Every picture provokes a memory.

   The framed paper bag will look out of place in this pantheon of the past but its very incongruity will enliven its meaning to me. It will mean nothing to anybody else.

   Maybe this blog, ‘The Chest’, should be titled ‘The Paper Bag’, Dear Reader. I’ve thought about that but decided against it. After all it would be wrong to honour the frailty of its contents, the thing whose very existence is owed to the thick, deep seated protective swaddle of so many years, the solid hardy wood of the cist.

     I have read a definition of ‘sentimentality’ as being ‘unearned emotion’. Sounds a wee bit harsh, does it not, Dear Reader?  But in the past year and more during which we  have all earned our emotions, for better or for worse, then maybe, just maybe, as I do not regard my current sentiment as morbid or mawkish, in this case, friends, perhaps my sudden rush of sentiment may be forgiven.

    Stay healthy and safe.