box man.

okay. so when i was a wee lass of 6 or so my younger brother ross and i played several games: pot and pan band parade, ride the laundry basket down the steps, banister climbing superheroes and box man.

to most he's known as the UPS guy or delivery man. but not in the hewitt household. ross and i, after hearing from our mother that aunt becky sent us a package, would wait like a puppy watching out the window for a glimpse of the man clad in brown. oh the box man. we adored him. the simplicity of his attire. the sleekness of his massive brown truck. the dazzling awe of thousands of packages just lurking behind the large man-sized door in the side of the truck. oh. he was our real-life superhero.

on the day he finally arrived we would run, literally run, out the door screaming "box man, box man do you have our package?!?" and, being the good-humored delivery man he always said "i think i might. are either of you fred?" our faces would fall. "no." "oh. that's good because this is for emily and ross." then jumps of joy and enthused smiles spread across our faces.

and the box man's.

i never thought about it until the other day. this all happened quite randomly, as my life tends to unfold. mom and i finished up lunch and panera. this creepy old man with suspenders hiking his belt above the equator, but leaving his pants behind, followed us out the door. being the friendly people we are, momma and i humored his comments about being old, liking bagels and i think something was mentioned about family in the army (bear with me...i'm getting to the connection).

as i opened ruby's door, i happened to glance back. the man's car was filled to the hilt with boxes. large cardboard ones. with labels and untaped tops. i cracked up, looked and mom and said: "he's like a boxman without a truck!"

then the more I started thinking about it, momma chatting away about how one would describe this barney-fife-like character, i realized he must be taking the boxes somewhere! someone had to be waiting to get the boxes. even if they were empty. even if he was only taking them home to pack them - he would be re-opening them at some point. discovering each new item as if it were a new Christmas present. re-living the first time he saw the person in the photograph, the day he bought that salt-shaker, the time he dropped that favorite dish of his wife's giving it that quirky little chip or that time the box-man delivered his wheel-o for his birthday, from his aunt.