Shingles/ Clapboards, plywood, trim board, card board boxes, house paint
Growing up my family lived out of boxes, we were never homeless, we had the opposite problem we had too many homes. Going into 12th grade I had already lived in 13 different houses, one boat, and attended just as many schools. Constantly packing and unpacking the only thing that stayed the same were the boxes we used to move us from one place to the next. We would patch up the old ones with masking tape and only get new ones when nothing could be done to stop them from bursting. These boxes traveled hundreds of miles and held onto our belongings longer than any house ever did.
I couldn’t tell you why we lived this way other than because we could, or that my mom loves old houses and my dad loves to complain about fixing them. What I do know for sure, which may be obvious, is that living out of boxes has made me who I am today. I remember hearing my mom say to herself on more than one occasion “god I hope we didn’t fuck you kids up”. Everytime it broke my heart, but that’s exactly what other mothers and teachers told her she was doing. They were all so convinced that their own perception of a home was the only healthy one.
They were wrong, we certainly aren’t perfect, no one is, but we are doing pretty good. My older sister is a badass sailor navigating the high seas on massive ships, my little sister is a genius, living on an island researching scallops, and I am a self proclaimed artist. So I would say two out of the three is pretty good (mom if you’re reading this I’m kidding, I’m doing great). So good in fact that I wanted to thank these boxes for everything they have done and finally give them permanent homes. Each of the boxes in front of you was at one point filled with what my parents decided needed to come with us, what we needed to start a new home. Now they are surrounded by what superficially makes a home, four walls, siding, and some paint. What they no longer have is what I have learned truly makes a home, us.