Outside the Box
- Peggy McManus
- Jul 1
- 6 min read
Updated: Jul 3
By Peggy McManus July, 2025
When I was a kid, I loved boxes. In my simple world, it was a rare and grand day, if I managed to snag myself a decent box — the bigger, the better.
I remember the day Dad brought home an electric dishwasher for Mom. I was mildly interested in how this machine might ease my own dishwashing duties, but I was far more keen to take ownership of the box it came in.
“Piggly, haul that box to your room if you’re going to keep it,” Mom said. “Take the baby with you. I want some peace while I worsh some dishes in my brand new dishworsher!”
I never knew why Mom said “worsh” instead of “wash” but we kids picked up on it. When I got to college, I trained myself to say “Washington” instead of “Worshington,” but Mom and the trolls never did correct their pronunciation. At this particular moment, though, I was only interested in the big box that I was about to transform into an amazing clubhouse.
Having to care for Baby Troll did put a wrench in things, but I dragged her and my new box back to my bedroom, excited to get started. I set Baby Troll up with some crayons and paper to scribble on, took the rest of the crayons, and crawled inside the box. It would soon be transformed into an awesome sanctuary that no one would be allowed to enter without knowing the secret password. At least that’s what I imagined as I began drawing signs like “Girl Scouts Rule” and “No Boys Allowed” on the interior walls.
Dad popped in to say he’d be by after dinner with a box knife to cut a door and windows out for me. I was no longer allowed to use the box knife, due to an incident a while back. Fine by me. The last time I’d used it, the oldest troll, Kelly, had yelled like a banshee for hours. She never could handle the sight of blood, especially her own.
Anyway, after coloring the club’s interior for a couple hours, I crawled out of the box. Baby Troll had nodded off to sleep with a drool-coated crayon dangling from her mouth. Hopefully, she’s only ruined one of my crayons, I thought, flicking it out of her mouth. I didn’t have extras to waste on her freaky snack habits.
Then I saw it. Baby Troll had scribbled relentlessly all over the outside of my box.
“Noooooo!” I screamed. I’d planned to draw window boxes and flower beds there. Now there wasn’t even space for a “KEEP OUT” sign.
Baby Troll woke up and started howling for Mom. She should be howling. I was mad enough to scribble all over her with permanent marker! I picked her up and carried her back to the kitchen. Mom had surely “worshed” all her dishes by now.
“Take your crayon-eating troll baby back,” I cried. “She ruined my box.”
Mom did not seem as traumatized by this offense as I was. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said and went back to stirring the pot simmering on the stove. “Set her in the high chair, will ya, Piggly? Supper’s about ready.”
Later that evening Dad came with the box knife and cut out the club’s windows and door. But it wasn’t enough to make up for the damage caused by Baby Troll. To make matters worse, our cats soon discovered the box and claimed it as their own personal scratching post. Within a week it was ripped to shreds and I ended up hauling it out to the compost pile.
Just a few months later, though, another good box opportunity came along that was even better than the “dishworsher” box.
It was the evening before my best friend, Kerry’s, birthday and she was spending the night at my house. Mom made us a big bowl of popcorn and poured two glasses of Kool Aid from a pitcher in the fridge. We hauled the snacks to my bedroom and plopped down on my bed to listen to a stack of Donnie Osmond and Neil Diamond records. At some point we decided to break out our Barbies and that was that. We were lost for hours in the plastic, suntanned world of Mattel.
In the morning, Kerry’s mom, Jean, called to say it was time for her to head home, but I could tag along if I wanted to watch Kerry open her presents. Of course I did! In a way, they were my presents, too, as I would be the main person around to enjoy them with her. Plus, Jean was an Avon lady and maybe this would be the year she’d finally relent and give us, er Kerry, some real make-up.
They lived about a half mile away from me in a yellow bungalow Kerry’s parents rented when they relocated from California the year before.
When we got there, three presents sat on the kitchen table. They were all smaller than a bread box, but only one looked small enough to contain make-up.
Once we were seated at the table with the rest of Kerry’s family, the present opening began.
“Okay, birthday girl, git to opening those presents,” Kerry’s step dad, Bob, said. “I’m ready to dig into some of that birthday cake! Who’s with me?”
“I am,” I thought, but didn’t say so out loud. Kerry’s mom was a good baker and I hoped I would be offered one of the pink frosted cupcakes sitting on a plate alongside the presents.
Kerry tore the wrapping paper from the first present. Interesting! It was Christie, the African-American Barbie. She would make a fun new friend for our Barbies. The next present had a similar shape as the first and, oh my goodness, it was a Ken doll! Never before had we been given access to Barbie’s boyfriend! Kerry and I squealed with delight.
Only the smallest present was left and when I saw what it was I nearly drooled with envy. It was an Avon lip balm kit, shaped like a sleeping cat. The plastic head popped open to reveal a little round mirror and the body opened to an array of pretty pink-tinged lip balms. It was a dream come true, but I could tell by the way Kerry was clutching it that it would be a cold day in Minsk before she’d let me use it. I doubted I’d even be allowed to hold it. I understood. I’d feel the same if it were mine.
When we finished our cupcakes and sat licking the final remnants of frosting from their paper liners, Jean stood up from the table.
“There’s one more surprise,” she said. “Follow me.”
How could this day possibly get any better? I thought and excitedly grasped Kerry’s hand as we followed her Mom down into the basement.
“Ta-da!” Jean exclaimed, flipping on the overhead lights to illuminate a stack of empty Avon boxes piled high on a folding table. “Happy birthday!”
“Boxes?” Kerry asked, confused.
“Not just boxes,” Jean replied. “They are soon to be your own Barbie dream house! Come see.”
She waved us over to a second table filled with every craft supply you could imagine: rickrack, material scraps, glue and markers, colored paper and scissors. I looked down at the table filled with endless decorating possibilities and something clicked in my brain. Suddenly I could imagine the scraps of material transformed into drapes, bedspreads, and shower curtains, and the popsicle sticks glued together to make chairs, beds and coffee tables. The possibilities were endless!
Kerry and I immediately set to work and before long her (our) Barbie house was even bigger and better than the Barbie Dream House advertised on TV during Saturday morning cartoons!
We secretly worked on that Barbie house well into high school. I don’t remember when we finally stopped, but it doesn’t matter. Jean’s gift had already set the course for my future as an interior designer.
Fifty+ years later, I’m retired and Jean is in her 90s, but I still remember that magical birthday and the woman who ignited my imagination with a pile of empty Avon boxes.
McManus Recipe of the Month
Hands down, one of our favorite Fourth of July picnic foods is Bun's Baked Beans.
Pat's Yarns
Size doesn't matter, or does it? Pat grapples with this important question in Big.
Vintage Bun
A direct hit in the bum from a wayward firework makes for an exciting McManus 4th of July. Bun tells all in Old-Fashioned Fun.
Comments