Grandpa's Mystery Box

This is an old 8mm film projector. I do not have one of these, though I do remember the one my dad used to set up on our dining room table, with the projection aimed onto the sliding kitchen door, to show us home movies. Good stuff. I also do not have any old home movies.

What I do have are six (SIX!) metal canisters that once held home movies. So to recap--I have neither a projector nor any actual movies. Just empty canisters.

These canisters have sat in my cupboard for years now, untouched. Shocker, I know. In my mind, when I saw them, I thought they might make clever gift boxing. I don't know why I thought that. They are round, about 1/2 an inch thick with a diameter of about six inches. What on earth did I think was going to fit into one of these canisters? I have no idea.

It's my fault that I have these useless items. Several years ago, I raised my hand in response to a question, asked by my dad, during the annual Rathjen Christmas tradition known as "The Mystery Box"**: Did anyone want the film canisters? And up went my hand, much to my husband's chagrin, and antithetical to every word Dave has ever uttered to me regarding responding to my dad's proclivity toward unloading sentimental (mostly to my dad), useless (for the most part) items dredged up from the depths of ... everywhere. Literally. From closets. From the garbage garage. From storage. From boxes. From bookshelves. From desks. From file cabinets.

The Mystery Box: I actually find the whole concept endearing. So here it is, all laid out.

This is the box. Nothing fancy going on here. I think he's used the same box for the past six or seven years.

My dad gathers items throughout the year into this box. These items run soup to nuts (literally--you could find expired cans of soup in the box, though they would likely be from an old MRI from my dad's army days--you think I'm kidding but I'm not). The box has contained, over the years, among other things: old drivers' licenses, expired passports, plastic plates from when my brothers and I were still eating in highchairs, fifty-five year old artifacts from Liberia and Turkey, books in Russian and German, old physics-themed t-shirts from my dad's teaching days, a Turkish bong (what were my parents DOING in Turkey?), a scalpel (again, not kidding), a serving tray, drawings made by my dad during the war when he was six years old (quite the impressive artist, he was able to draw very convincing battle scenes as well as swastikas), a hand drill, an inlaid music box, authentic Russian military pins (these just add to the myth of my dad at one point being a CIA operative), a George Washington picture, a patriotic pencil holder, small metal animal figures... the list goes on. In fact, as my nephew reminded me, there is an actual list of what goes into the box each year that my dad maintains on a spreadsheet.
Retirement brings lots of imaginative ways to occupy your time.

Anyway, on Rathjen Christmas, after stockings have been opened, my dad makes the anticipated entrance into the room and talks a little bit about what's in the box (WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!?!--that was just for Olivia and Dave). He always tells us that no one has to take anything if they don't want to, and he also always lets us know that if we find something that we think is better suited to someone else, or we want something that someone else has, we can always trade. And we can take as much as we want.

It is at this point that (my) Dave and Jill always give each other knowing looks, silently communicating their solidarity in not wanting anything from this box to make its way into their homes. The picture below is a candid. This really happens. I'm not making it up.

Kids (and some adults) then get up and rifle through the box. It used to be that everyone would, one at a time (and some under duress) reach in without looking and pull something out, but it has evolved into whoever wants to just gets up and looks into the box to explore its contents, claiming anything of interest.

This year my dad outdid himself. He putt into the box a book that he and my mom tried (and I emphasize the word tried, because in no way did they succeed) to read to us kids when we were younger. The book is called Where Did I Come From  and it covers exactly what you think, but not likely in the way you are imagining. Below is a sampling of the mild hysteria that ensued as  grandkids attempted a read-aloud.

Nobody likely ended up taking this book home. That is not an indication of any sort of failure on anyone's part. Because it's not about what's in the box and whether anyone wants any of it. I mean it is a little bit. But not really. It's more about what happens when the box is opened. It's about the anticipation and the reactions. And the stories and the laughter. And the discussions and the interactions. And the memories and the tradition.

The whole Mystery Box is a living metaphor. It's as if we reach into my dad's brain and pull out a detail for him to reveal or a story for him to tell. It's an amazingly creative way for him to share his past (or at least what the CIA will let him divulge).

And that is the real magic of the Mystery Box.

** It turns out that different family members have different names for the Mystery Box tradition. Below is a sampling of responses I received when I asked what everyone calls it:
Me: Grandpa's Surprise Box
Dave: Grandpa's Box of Shit
Olivia: Mystery Grab Box
Mark: Mystery Box
Steven: Grab Bag
Jill: the Crap Box
Emma: the Box