Photo by Alice Donovan Rouse on Unsplash

I have to organize my photos. Well, not all of them, but there’s a whole 2021 backlog on my phone that I really need to go through and then delete off the Cloud or else I’ll start getting those warning messages that my phone is NOT backed up and that Certain Doom will thus occur. I hate those messages so much that last year, instead of doing the work of paring down what needed to be stored in my phone, I just paid the extra for storage. Now I am a slave to Apple to the tune of $1.35 per month.

Okay, so that’s not a terrible price for ensuring that my memories don’t disappear – it’s only about the cost of one third of a Starbucks Grande Caramel Macchiato (with oat milk). The cost of Starbucks drinks helps me to relativize a lot of purchases that, in theory, should be a lot more important than coffee. Like photos. Like memories.

But when I do get around to looking at the photos from my phone that Magically-Instantly download to my computer to see what I can delete off my phone, this is what I find: screenshots of memes and their cropped versions that I sent to someone, screenshots of my phone mid-podcast to remind me to go back and listen to something again (which I almost never do) and screenshots of texts to remind me to do something. Oh, and some genuine photos.

I’ve learned not to delete them all. While many of these things are actual pictures of people I love blowing out birthday candles or beside the huge pile of snow they just shovelled or selfies of a group of us hiking in Canmore or just me on the trails in Vermilion Provincial Park, the memes and the texting and the podcast screenshots are also moments in time. I save a lot of conversations with my kids or my husband (either for future enjoyment or for future proof of things that moms and wives need to prove to their beloveds). A snap of a podcast shows me what I was into at the time I took it. And All Those Covid memes will (hopefully soon) remind me of when we wore masks and bought a lot of toilet paper.

Some stuff has to go: the price of SPAM at Costco, the mysterious & blurry shots of my shoes, the doubles and tens and twenties when my phone was accidentally in burst mode. But the random and odd pictures that my phone seems to take of its own accord have the flavor of those old time real photos from the end of the Kodak camera reel: slightly exposed, weirdly angled and capturing something ethereal that just might be happy to look back at twenty years from now.

Maybe I don’t have to organize my photos just yet. Maybe I’ll just time-capsule them instead in a folder on my computer or buy a round of Starbucks for a year’s worth of storage. And then twenty years from now, like looking through a shoebox of photos, I can then wonder what the heck I was thinking. Or not.

When I was a kid, an important part of summer was the extra-hanging-out with The Cousins, especially the ones that lived about a mile away, easy distance by hike or by bike. And unlike school, where we were shuffled off into age-segregated groups, summer was a time to do away with those artificial lines. In the summer, The Youngers were sometimes allowed to hang with The Olders. It wasn’t Lord of the Flies, either – we had civilized wiener roasts or picnicked on white-bread sandwiches cut into neat triangles made by our auntie – and if somebody’s glasses got broken, we all commiserated. (Because we all wore glasses and knew dang well how much they cost.)

Usually, we stayed outside, because that was the best place to escape The Adults. But a sudden thunderstorm might send us into the barn or the playhouse, or even sometimes, the house. On one of these afternoons, with all of us crowded in a circle on my cousin Barb’s bed, she decided to show us The Shoebox. It was a pretty ordinary shoebox. And the shoes that once lived there had moved on. Inside, in a reverse chronological pile from the top down, were all the things she had saved in her life thus far, the Things She Decided Were Worth Saving. I don’t remember exactly what was inside that box but I could venture to guess there were some newspaper clippings, a napkin or two from a wedding (remember when napkins were “engraved” with the couples’ name and date of the wedding?), probably some birthday cards, friends’ school photos, bottlecaps, badges and some letters, still tucked inside their envelopes with their time-stamp postmarks on the front.

I was completely enamored. Here was her entire life in a shoebox! Okay, maybe not really. But it felt so personal to me, her letting us see All Those Special Things, because she was showing us a little piece of herself, her memories, her dear ones. And I knew then that I needed to get my own shoebox.

Shoeboxes have long been repositories of such collections. Before my Shoebox Epiphany, I knew there already were other shoeboxes in our house. There was a box of unused greeting cards that I loved to look at, with some strange postcards at the bottom that never would be sent to anyone. There was the box with all the invitations from weddings past. There was probably a shoebox with old photos in it. Because shoeboxes, by their very neat size and construction and maybe their appealing color or design (or perhaps by the sheer price tag of the shoes you purchased) demand to be saved. So you might as well put them to work.

The shoebox is also a good limiter. Once the shoebox is full, well, you need to get rid of something. One of the first things I remember secreting to my shoebox was a cardboard french fry box shaped like a skunk (WHAT?) that came from a rare lunch out in The City. I kept it for a loooooooong time but eventually it was ousted from the shoebox. The shoebox is a flexible time capsule so, if you’re a Peruser or a Rememberer, you might find yourself naturally culling through the box every time you rifle its contents. Because food-stained skunk boxes eventually do lose their ketchup-colored patina.

Of course, you could also just add another shoebox.

There’s a few “shoeboxes” in my house now: some actual shoeboxes, some are dedicated dresser drawers, but mostly, I have saved things in scrapbook albums, including some of those things from my childhood shoebox. I sometimes wonder what to do with it all. But then, one of the kids or the girlfriends or a niece or nephew askes a question about our Good Old Days and we find ourselves, in a circle, around the Proverbial Shoebox.

I’ve saved too much, I have so many shoeboxes, I wonder what to do with it all sometimes. Except: it’s always fun to look back and remember a time when your whole life could fit into a shoebox.

Do you know a kid who needs a shoebox this summer? It’s a pretty simple do-it-yourself project. And, of course, no adults allowed.