Sepia Saturday 166

This week's theme is very handy for my Tales from the Shoebox.  Glendower's Bard appears immediately before this contribution to Saturday Sepia, and it is hoped to make this a regular feature between SS postings.  This piece is concluded with a tale from the other shoebox, the difference between the boxes being that the other one actually contains tales relating to real events suitably embellished to lift the participants to heroic status.
Box Making, ancient yet modern craft or manufacturing process, creating valuable artwork or cheap utilitarian container.  They come in all shapes and sizes and can be made of many materials from gold to wood or plain paper.  The common factor is that they are designed to hold something; sometimes securely and sometimes just in one place.  They can hold the smallest thing, the most precious and valueless and in the finality, us as we pass from being to our final destination in the cold earth or the fire.

Shaker Box Maker using traditional methods

A modern box making machine

Box maker in Ghana making boxes to suit the whims of the departed on the route to the exit

Off the Shelf 

Perhaps as Art

A Tale from the Other Shoe Box

Getting on to coffins reminded me of a story of when I was a youngster, or was it the story that led me the Box of the inevitable end.  This story, I'm afraid, does not have any pictures, but it did actually happen.

I was out one evening with some mates, we were about 14 or 15, and as it was dark it must have been in the late Autumn or Winter.  Just for amusement we decided to play Knock Down Ginger, a game where you knock on someone's door and hide so they can't see you.  We chose the door of another mate, his father was a little Connemara man, an ex jockey, barely five foot two.  Up the passageway knock knock, back out the gate and down the road we ran,  we were half way down the road by the time he reached the gate.  I've never known a man with short legs, and in stocking feet, run so fast.  At the end of the road he was close behind, his socks hanging nine inches over the end of his toes. Two of us veered left and the other shot to the right, little John followed the horde.  Not knowing this we jumped over the wall of the house at the end of the road and into the garage to hide.  The house was that of the undertaker, and we found ourselves amongst the coffins.  I don't think any were occupied, but we didn't look.  My poor old mate had had a traditional Irish Catholic upbringing, and was shaking with fear.  He had his rosary  in his hand and was chanting gibberishly.  I was glad of my Chapel  raising for fear of the after life, in spite of the Hell Fire sermons of a German pastor, was not a feature.

My poor mate got some stick.  My big mouth inadvertently let out the story of his necklace (as the rosary became in the telling)  and that took some living down.