Billy’s parents bought a new icebox. It was delivered in a huge, brown cardboard box to their front yard. It was 1954 in Ames, Iowa, and Billy lived next door. We were excited about Billy’s parents’ purchase — not the icebox, but this new, humongous toy: the brown cardboard box.
We climbed into our rocket ship and took off to the moon. It was a dangerous journey, with our ship being blasted by outside invaders. Our landing ripped through a whole side of the ship. We stepped out and placed the first popsicle stick on the face of the moon.
Next, we were in the Alamo. I was Davy Crockett and Billy was James Bowie. We fought valiantly until the end. You may have read about our last stand.
We dragged our brown cardboard sled to Devil’s Hill at the end of Burnett Street. With a little push, we went flying down the hill before crashing into the old maple tree. Billy got a bump on his head, and my knee bled just a little. But we were tough and ready for a second ride. Our sled was not.
Last week, a big cardboard box was discarded next to Mills Park in Carson City. Dozens of little boys and girls walked by after school, oblivious to the possibilities. Most were looking down at their cell phones. Not one child noticed the rocket ship or the Alamo or the huge sled ready for action.
Two cardboard boxes, 72 years apart. I don’t know why, but I find it all a little sad.
For the birds