- Jun 27, 2003
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The Good Stuff
by Robert Fulghum
The box contains those odds and ends of personal treasures that have survived any bouts of clean-it-out-and-throw-it-away that seize e from time to time. A thief looking into the box would not take anything - he couldn't get a dime for any of it. But if the house ever catches on fire, the box goes with me when I run.
One of the keepsakes in the box is a small paper bag. Lunch size. Though the top is sealed with duct tape, staples, and several paper clips, there is a ragged rip in one side through which the contents may be seen. This particular lunch sack has been in my care for maybe fourteen years. But it really belongs to my daughter, Molly. Soon after she came of school age, she became an enthusiastic participant in packing the morning lunches. One morning Molly handed me tow bags as I was about to leave. One regular lunch sack. And the one with the duct tape and staples and paper clips.
"Why the two bags?"
"The other one is something else."
"What's in it?"
"Just some stuff - take it with you."
At midday, while hurriedly scarfing my real lunch, I tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents. Two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic kinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and thirteen pennies.
I smiled. How charming. Rising to hustle off to all the important business of the afternoon, I swept the desk clean - into the wastebasket - leftover lunch, Molly's junk, and all. There wasn't anything in there I needed.
That evening Molly came to stand beside me while I was reading the paper. "Where's my bag?"
"What bag?"
"You know, the one I gave you this morning."
"I left it at the office, why?"
"I forgot to put this note in it." She hands over the note. "Besides, I want it back now."
"Why?"
"Those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like - I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't lose the bag, did you, Daddy?" Tears puddled in her eyes... "Bring it tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure thing - don't worry." As she hugged my neck with relief, I unfolded the note that had not got into the sack: "I love you, Daddy."
Oh. And also - uh-oh.
Molly had given me her treasures. All that a seven-year old held dear. Love in a paper sack. And I had missed it. Not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket because "there wasn't anything in there I needed."
It was a long trip back to the office. But there was nothing else to be done. Just ahead of the janitor, I picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on my desk... and found the jewels.
After washing the mustard off of the dinosaur and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, I carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper into a semi functional bag and put the treasures inside and carried the whole thing home gingerly, like an injured kitten. The next evening I returned it to Molly, no questions asked, no explanations offered. After dinner I asked her to tell me about the stuff in the sack. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story, a memory, or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends.
To my surprise, Molly gave the bag to me once again, several days later. Same ratty bag. Same stuff inside. I felt forgiven. And trusted. And loved. Over several months the bag went with me from time to time. It was never clear to me why I did or did not get it on a given day. I began to think of it as the Daddy prize and tried to be the night before so I might be given it the next morning.
In time Molly turned her attention to other things... found other treasures... lost interest in the game.. grew up. Something. Me? I was left holding the bag. She gave it to me one morning and never asked for its return. And so I have it still.
Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this "standing knee-deep in the river and dying of thirst." So the worn paper sack is there in the box. Left over from a time when a child said, "Here, the is the best I've got. Take it, it's yours. Such as I have, give I to thee." I missed it the first time, but it's my bag now.
Submitted by Richard
by Robert Fulghum
The box contains those odds and ends of personal treasures that have survived any bouts of clean-it-out-and-throw-it-away that seize e from time to time. A thief looking into the box would not take anything - he couldn't get a dime for any of it. But if the house ever catches on fire, the box goes with me when I run.
One of the keepsakes in the box is a small paper bag. Lunch size. Though the top is sealed with duct tape, staples, and several paper clips, there is a ragged rip in one side through which the contents may be seen. This particular lunch sack has been in my care for maybe fourteen years. But it really belongs to my daughter, Molly. Soon after she came of school age, she became an enthusiastic participant in packing the morning lunches. One morning Molly handed me tow bags as I was about to leave. One regular lunch sack. And the one with the duct tape and staples and paper clips.
"Why the two bags?"
"The other one is something else."
"What's in it?"
"Just some stuff - take it with you."
At midday, while hurriedly scarfing my real lunch, I tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents. Two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic kinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and thirteen pennies.
I smiled. How charming. Rising to hustle off to all the important business of the afternoon, I swept the desk clean - into the wastebasket - leftover lunch, Molly's junk, and all. There wasn't anything in there I needed.
That evening Molly came to stand beside me while I was reading the paper. "Where's my bag?"
"What bag?"
"You know, the one I gave you this morning."
"I left it at the office, why?"
"I forgot to put this note in it." She hands over the note. "Besides, I want it back now."
"Why?"
"Those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like - I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't lose the bag, did you, Daddy?" Tears puddled in her eyes... "Bring it tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure thing - don't worry." As she hugged my neck with relief, I unfolded the note that had not got into the sack: "I love you, Daddy."
Oh. And also - uh-oh.
Molly had given me her treasures. All that a seven-year old held dear. Love in a paper sack. And I had missed it. Not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket because "there wasn't anything in there I needed."
It was a long trip back to the office. But there was nothing else to be done. Just ahead of the janitor, I picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on my desk... and found the jewels.
After washing the mustard off of the dinosaur and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, I carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper into a semi functional bag and put the treasures inside and carried the whole thing home gingerly, like an injured kitten. The next evening I returned it to Molly, no questions asked, no explanations offered. After dinner I asked her to tell me about the stuff in the sack. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story, a memory, or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends.
To my surprise, Molly gave the bag to me once again, several days later. Same ratty bag. Same stuff inside. I felt forgiven. And trusted. And loved. Over several months the bag went with me from time to time. It was never clear to me why I did or did not get it on a given day. I began to think of it as the Daddy prize and tried to be the night before so I might be given it the next morning.
In time Molly turned her attention to other things... found other treasures... lost interest in the game.. grew up. Something. Me? I was left holding the bag. She gave it to me one morning and never asked for its return. And so I have it still.
Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this "standing knee-deep in the river and dying of thirst." So the worn paper sack is there in the box. Left over from a time when a child said, "Here, the is the best I've got. Take it, it's yours. Such as I have, give I to thee." I missed it the first time, but it's my bag now.
Submitted by Richard
