At last count, I have moved 15 times since graduating from college. Some were from street to street in the same city; one, from South Carolina to California, was literally across the country. Fifteen moves in 46 years, or about once every three years. But since we have lived in this house for 27 years, it’s actually fifteen moves in 19 years. That’s what life in television news was like.

I used to say that every time my driver license, checkbook and Time magazine subscription had the same address, I moved. And it was pretty close to true. I worked in South Dakota for two years, and moved three times.

That’s a lot of packing, and unpacking. Most, I packed and unpacked myself. I got pretty good at it, I guess. At least not very much was broken.

When we bought our house, the move was only one mile away. We could have walked the stuff down the street, except for the beds and the piano. And part of it was slightly uphill, so we rented a truck. Boxed things up and moved. Then opened boxes and found a place for everything.

Almost.

There’s a box in the closet in what we call the computer room that I haven’t opened since I left Portland in 1989. It’s not a big box. It’s what moving companies call a book box.

I know some people who say they have come upon a box they haven’t opened in a move and they have thrown it out. They reason that if they haven’t needed whatever it is after some time, they don’t need it at all, and they pitch it, unopened and unexamined.

But I know exactly what’s in The Box. It’s my records. Not tax records, or criminal or employment. More valuable than that, to me. Vinyl records. Albums. All in good condition. One has never been played. Still wrapped in its original cellophane, last I knew. Another has only been played once, on one side. All of them were cleaned every time they were played and every time they were put away. The paper sleeve is turned perpendicular to the opening in the jacket so the record has never fallen out. It is part of the ritual of having a vinyl record collection.

It’s an eclectic little collection of 1960s and 70s music. My musical tastes tended toward 1970 college dormitory and haven’t progressed much since then. I’ve obviously not bought anything new. There’s some Simon and Garfunkel, some Beatles of course. Grateful Dead, Chicago, James Taylor, Credence Clearwater, CSNY, Willie Nelson’s “Red Headed Stranger”, a smattering of Windham Hill albums – George Winston, Michael Hedges, William Ackerman. Moody Blues. My friend Tom and I decided one day in the dorm that if you listened to everything the Moody Blues had recorded, start to finish, in order, you would understand the meaning of the universe. Hence, I am enlightened. Or I was at the time. It may have worn off some. I have the Bee Gees Odessa album, long before disco. Michael Johnson. Not Jackson, Johnson. And then, there’s the stuff that I used to play a lot. Have you ever heard of Jesse Winchester? Do you know Leo Kottke? I have pretty much everything they’ve ever recorded, at least up until The Box was sealed. I could take it to a collector’s shop and sell it all for a dollar or two, or just give it away. If anyone would take it.

Now, I don’t procrastinate. It’s just that sometimes it takes me a long time to get something done. The turntable never made the move. I plan to buy one that I could connect to a USB cable and upload my treasured collection. I haven’t gotten to it yet. There are also ancient upright typewriters in the room and I plan to refurbish them, one day.

Like the sweatshirts from the Oscars, jackets and sweaters from golf tournaments I attended, few of which I ever wear, afraid that they will tatter and lose their meaning, and the assemblage of coffee mugs from travels and events largely forgotten, The Box sits in the closet. It’s all here, for no particular reason, except that it’s part of me.  

I also have half of my mother’s Hummel figurine collection. She really liked them, and they have some value. But they have more value to me. I have the key to my dad’s golf cart. He died on the golf course, just after he finished playing. I like to think that key was the last thing he held in his hand.

I suspect The Box will remain unopened in the closet for someone else to open and puzzle over, then probably throw it out. I know its worth. In fact, only I know its worth. But just maybe, there will be something else laying around here—maybe a ticket stub from the 1984 Olympics, an autographed book, or Brownie, my childhood teddy bear—that someone will pick up and decide to keep. Just because.

That is the way I see life everlasting.