Snow is falling slower this morning; a titanic snowdrift stands
at least four feet tall and twenty-some feet long on our deck. One step outside and my leg could sink out of
sight into its icy depths. I’ll stay inside, thank you very much. I’ll go to The Box.
A couple of years ago we remodeled our storage area and covered
the walls with pressed wafer board instead of drywall – my husband’s ingenious
plan so that anything could be nailed anywhere no matter its weight or size. The
woody ambiance (appropriate for a forest ranger) was more than I expected; even
the ceiling screamed wood.
When it was finished, I stood in the middle of the room. “I
feel like I’m standing inside a big box,” I remarked with a small voice and a hint
of female cynicism. “A box!”
He overlooked my sarcasm and glommed onto the name. It stuck. The Box.
Today I’m heading to The Box because it offers an alternative
to walking the road that is currently buried knee-deep (a conservative estimate)
in snow. A crazy assemblage of
conglomerate fishing poles and lures occupy one end of The Box, as well as
other essential Man Things off-limits to me by choice. The grandkids’ toys fill an entire shelving
unit. Assorted miscellany peeks from cubicles
hanging from the ceiling: coolers, kitchen overflow items, old paint, a
dehydrator. An extra frig and upright freezer stand tall against one wall.
It’s not an alluring environment. I go here because I’m interested in the mini-trampoline.
Fifteen minutes of bouncing kangaroo-style will rejuvenate
me, and I’ll be ready to face the interior of the house for yet another day. They say (whoever they are) that “rebounding” on a mini-tramp jostles lymphatic fluid
in a positive way, opening otherwise sluggish lymph channels. Maybe that’s why I feel energized after
jumping on this little patch of canvas supported with springs, or maybe it’s
just a placebo effect reminiscent of pogo-stick euphoria I remember from
childhood. Either way, it will be tonic
for blizzard-imposed cabin fever.
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