Evolution of a Box

          First there was a box.  It was big and unwieldy and each month caused me to break fingernails as I struggled the thing off the shelf and into my grocery cart.   My immediate and usual thought consisted of unkind words mentally thrown at whoever designed such a large, heavy, and awkward carton for laundry detergent.

          Imagine my delight when some months later the detergent company, with loud fanfare unveiled their brand new container…a box one third the size of the original.  The ads promoting this little gem spouted on about the ease of getting it off the shelf, the miniscule space it would take up in the laundry room and the fact that shoppers no longer needed the strength of ten men to carry this wonder to their cars.  I was a happy camper.

          But, the manufacturers apparently not simply satisfied with the new size of their product, felt moved to embellish its contents as well.  So, not too many months later, the smaller box proclaimed: ‘Now with added Zingy Enzymes.’

          It seems that thinking a cupful of plain old soap powder would produce clean clothes from my washing machine was a completely incorrect concept on my part.  Without me being aware, my clothes had been dingy for years.  But, with the added zingy things working their magic, the clothes would finally exit my machine whiter and brighter than all the stars in the heavens.  Well!  I was certainly impressed.

          On a later shopping expedition and sporting my fabulously brighter, whiter, shorts and t-shirt, I noted the manufacturers of my favorite detergent had not rested on their laurels.  They’d been busily working to make my life even happier.  Their latest packaging informed me that the box now contained twenty percent more zingy enzymes than previously.  Wow!

          I noticed too, the price was creeping up a few pennies with each new unveiling.  But still, to be able to dazzle all my friends and neighbors with my sparkling-like-new clothes was certainly worth it, wasn’t it?

          Not much later, the detergent bigwigs, finally happy with the contents of their container, returned their attention to the box itself.  Obviously all those terrific enzymes rattling around inside the box needed a little more space.  So out it came…the ‘New Improved Box.’  It was a different color and slightly larger than the previous model but with the ‘new improved’ words emblazoned on its front and back, it was like a wondrous new entity.

          Nearly two years to the day later, I broke two fingernails and almost gave myself a hernia juggling a huge box of laundry detergent off the grocery store shelf.  My favorite manufacturer had once again opted to produce a new version of the box by increasing the size by at least two thirds.  This new container was going to have me dancing in the aisles and save me heaps of loot by lasting so much longer than the smaller box.  It was a wonderful product for the budget conscious among us.

          Well, what can you say to that?

          ‘Ummmm…it’s the same size it was a couple of years ago?’

          Nah.  That would surely prompt the marketing guys into a tizzy and they’d have to start all over again with a brand new smaller box.

         

         

                       

 

         

                            

My Girl Sophie

          A little less than three years ago, after months of poring through internet sites and visiting animal rescue facilities, I found the puppy I’d been searching for.  A fluff ball of brown, black and white fur, who tilted her head to the side as though listening to my question when I asked ‘do you want to be my doggie?’

          I named her Sophie because it seemed to suit her.  Much better than the ‘Princess of the House’ moniker she thought she deserved.  Sophie is a Bichon Frise mix.  No one was too sure what that ‘mix’ actually might be, but as her legs continued to grow and she lost some of the color in her makeup, I thought an Old English Sheepdog might have been in her lineage.  Either that or a white St. Bernard.

Sophie at 3 months

          A little less than two years ago, I had an emergency replacement of a perfectly nice, relatively new, laminate floor in both my living room and in my dining room.

          And what has one to do with the other?  Ah, you might well ask.

          At the time, my daughter was visiting from Australia when, at about 2 a.m.. she stuck her head into my room and, very calmly, asked about towels.

          ‘Towels?’  I gave you towels.’

          ‘We need more Mum…lots more.  The house is flooding.’

          I was out of bed like a shot and followed her downstairs.  The living room floor was covered in about two inches of water, the accent rug in the center of the room a soaked blob.  I looked further past the soggy furniture to the dining room.  It too was fast becoming a sea of wet rugs and wetter furniture legs.

          Frantically, we looked to find the source of all this water.  Now, there is no way for me to prove this…but I swear I heard distinct musical sounds coming from the half bathroom under the stairs.  Something like, ‘tra-la-la-la-la, tra-la-la-la.’

          And there was Sophie, standing under a gorgeous, and very large spray of water emanating from the chewed through flexicord that connected the toilet to the water pipe in the wall.  We stood transfixed as Sophie splashed and played and romped.  She was having the time of her life!

          Needless to say, despite our best efforts and every towel I possessed, it was obvious the water had gotten under the laminate flooring and it would all have to be ripped up and replaced.  And of course the toilet flexicord substituted for an unchewable stainless steel job.

          It took several days to dry out the floor and for the new laminate to be installed, with Sophie checking everything to ensure quality work was being performed.

          But one good thing did come out of all this.  We dispensed with ideas of sheepdogs and St. Bernards…Sophie’s mixed lineage obviously included a  Portugese Water Dog!

                   

                                                  Sophie at about 18 months

The Little White Jug

          My Mamma, sister and I, entered Australia as refugees back in the 1950’s.  We had nothing but dreams and my Mamma’s incredible work ethic to start a new life in a wonderful new, free country.

          My sister and I had very little in the way of toys and other kid stuff but we loved the movies.  Perhaps because our Mamma realized how little we had or perhaps because she loved them too, on Saturday afternoons we were given one shilling each with which to attend the local cinema.

          Across from the movie theatre was a small corner store that sold all kinds of knick knacks.  Everything from necklaces and earrings that we believed were made of real diamonds, to fringed silk stoles, to pretty cups and saucers.  Today that stock would probably be referred to as ‘collectibles’ and cost a small fortune.

          We particularly admired the teacups and matching saucers; some even had little plates for sandwiches as part of the set.  For us, this kind of thing was only ever used by the very rich.  Our crockery supply at home consisted of mismatched and chipped plates, cups and thick ceramic bowls picked up cheaply at secondhand shops.

          Since my sister and I usually had time to spare before we had to be seated for our movie, we would always cross the road to gaze in the shop window and practically salivate at the array of wonderful things we saw.  We devised a little game in which we each had to choose one thing that we would buy for ourselves.  The only rules were that one person could not choose the same thing as the other, and, you couldn’t choose the same item two weeks running.

          For weeks we had such fun.  Our noses pressed up against the window, pretending we could ever afford any of the beautiful things we saw.

          And then it happened.  One Saturday afternoon, staring into the window again we saw it:  a little white jug.  The kind rich people used for cream.  What made this little jug so very special was that there was a picture painted on the side.  I think we both saw it at the same time and I truly believe we both had the immediate and exact same thought.

          Mamma had often talked about owning her own house.  Her dream house was pristine white with a red roof, a white picket fence around the front yard, an arbor of roses over the gate and beautiful flowers abounding in the garden.  The picture on the side of the little white jug was exactly that.

          We knew we had to buy that jug for Mamma.  It held all the promises of Mamma’s dreams and our future.  We also knew we had no money except our movie admittance shillings and no prospects of getting any more.  Still, the least we could do was ask the price of the jug.  Perhaps we could save up for it?

          I cannot imagine what the proprietor thought when she saw these two little girls enter her shop.  Ten and eight we were, each clutching our cinema money and wondering about the price of the jug.

          It was far more than we had of course, and, the shopkeeper added, such a pretty piece would not last long in the shop.  It would probably be snapped up before the next weekend.  We were devastated.  But we were also resilient.  After all, we were Mamma’s daughters!

          We offered to pay a small amount each week until we had paid the full price of the jug and we could take it home.  We told the proprietor it was for our Mamma and that she would treasure it far more than anyone else could or would.  My sister and I were unaware of such a thing as lay-by or layaway.  For that matter, I’m not sure it had even come into practice.  But that sweet lady must have seen the desperation on our faces and agreed to take the jug out of the window and keep it behind the counter for us.  But, she emphasized, we had to pay something towards the total every single week without fail or not only would we lose the jug, we would lose any money we had paid on it.

          So for many weeks my sister and I bought our movie tickets but resisted buying lollies or the Screen News magazines.  The latest gossip about our favorite stars would have to wait.  And each week we crossed the road to the knick knack shop and handed over our pennies until finally the little white jug was ours.

           We were in our 50’s when Mamma passed away.  While sorting through Mamma’s things some weeks after the funeral, we came across the little white jug.  No longer white, fine crack lines running down its sides and a small chip in the lip, it had remained Mamma’s prized possession all her life; her dream on the side of a little white jug.

Whispers in the Dark

          A girlfriend in Australia is in the middle of rehearsals for a play about King Edward VIII and his American love Wallis Simpson.  A very talented actress in her own right, she is also a great director…which is the hat she is wearing for this production of ‘Crown Matrimonial’.

          We two were very active in community theatre many moons ago.  Both as actors, directors and in various other roles…from stage manager, to property master to prompter.  There are no big heads in community theatre where it really is a case of being a rooster one day and a feather duster the next.

          So there we were discussing her production and, of course, the reminiscing about our repertory days snuck into the conversation.  In particular, the time I was left on stage with scrambled egg running down my face.

          The play was a plot twisting murder mystery with me playing ‘the other woman’ to a young man whose experience on stage prior to our production was nil.  But since males were always in short supply, lack of acting experience was not a big issue.  As long as they could learn lines they would be fine.

          My friend had taken on the job of prompt.  The only requisite for a prompter is a soft, clear voice and good sightlines of all the actors on stage.  In this case she opted to sit on the floor behind a fireplace façade.  The grate of the fireplace was filled with beautiful Boston ferns and looked quite lovely on the set. 

          Our community theatre was very small…intimate would be a more precise description.  It seated 200 patrons and the beginning of the audience seating was only a foot or two from the edge of the stage.  Very cosy indeed!

          The play was well underway when, after delivering a line I looked at my leading man and was struck by the frozen stare on his face.  I took a step towards him which somehow brought him out of his trance and, in quick succession he delivered his next two lines.  The problem with that was that I was supposed to insert my line between his two.  And it was crucial.  After all, we were plotting how to murder his wife!

          My line was ‘you mean suicide?’  But since he’d more or less already circumvented the need for me to say that, I was left trying to figure out what to say that would make sense and move the play along.  But our prompter thinking I had forgotten my line started doing her job.

          ‘Suicide,’ she whispered.

          I ignored her, still trying to work out what dialogue to use.

          ‘Suicide,’ she said in a stronger voice.

          I flicked my wrist sideways trying to get her to stop but succeeded only in looking like I was swatting away flies.  I looked towards the fireplace thinking I’d communicate my problem with a bug-eyed stare.

          All I could see was my friend’s face planted between two bins of Boston ferns mouthing, ‘suicide, suicide, suicide.’

          To this day, I still don’t know if he was trying to be helpful or was just frustrated by my seeming deafness, but a member of the audience suddenly yelled in a very loud voice.  ‘She said suicide.’

          The theatre erupted into laughter and I buried my face into my leading man’s chest.  As much to hide the redness creeping up from my neck as to stop my shoulders from shaking with a fit of the giggles.

          But, like true troupers, after a moment, we got on with it and finished one of the most successful plays our little theatre had ever produced.  Still, every time I see a Boston fern, I remember that evening and the heat pops up on my face again.  If I forget everything I’ve ever learned in my life, I shall never again forget the line, ‘you mean suicide?’